All That Remains
by SwiftSnowmane
Summary: There may be no safe place left on earth, but that does not mean they cannot live. Sequel to Between the Fire and the Sky.
1. Tempus fugit

This picks up immediately after the end of **Between the Fire and the Sky** , the tale of Beth and Daryl's journey between 'Still' and 'Alone'. I humbly suggest reading the original story first, as this sequel is not merely a divergence from 'Alone', but is also the culmination of everything that has come before.

* * *

 _Tempus fugit_

'Time flies,' or, 'it escapes, irretrievable time.'

In which Beth drops a pen, and changes everything.

* * *

"Nothing is written."  
\- _Lawrence of Arabia_

…

It had been an accident.

Or so Beth told herself.

She'd been writing in her diary. Just a short entry, about how they'd managed to spend a night in a house without incident. Such a miraculous occurrence deserved to be recorded. And if, in that recording of events now past there had also been a wish for the future that she'd hoped might come true, well… it was best that she think no more on it.

When she'd finished that entry, she'd attempted another. But penned letters had turned to doodles, which in their turn had turned to full-fledged drawings. She hadn't _intended_ to start sketching him, not really. But there just isn't all that much to do when you're sitting in a drafty kitchen in a funeral home at the end of the world. When all is quiet—well, mostly quiet— and you're waiting for a dog that might or might not come back.

Since the creature had first appeared at the door, Beth had no way of telling how much time had passed, for she could not even see out the boarded up kitchen window, and Daryl had been strict about letting her so much as approach the front entrance. It was the only way in, after all, and he was already on edge because of her ankle.

And so, when the dog had come sniffing around, jangling the string of cans that still served as the best alarm for walkers, she'd hobbled about as far as the kitchen door. And there, her companion had stopped her. He'd sounded harsh, almost menacing, like the Daryl of old, gruffly commanding her to _stay back_. But Beth knew him better now, and she'd just smiled up at him. And, sure enough, almost instantly the stern mask had melted away—a soft, almost apologetic expression all that remained in its wake. With his hand warm on her shoulder, Daryl had gently turned her away from the front door and helped her limp back to her seat at the table.

And there she sat now, watching him.

With the pen in her hands, Beth looked up from her journal and glanced at Daryl where he stood beneath the kitchen door frame, crossbow in hand, glaring at the entrance hall as though walkers might burst through at any moment. With such an intense expression on his face she thought he could have been standing out there in the forest, waiting for a deer to come into his sights. And so, as she sketched away, it was the likeness of a hunter that took shape there on the lined paper before her. For she could not help but add the ridged trunk of an oak there, just behind his head, its branches hung with Spanish moss. And there, at the other side, a grove of river birch sprouted from the paper as if by magic. A wood thrush warbled in one of the branches over Daryl's head—she even added little music notes emanating from its open beak.

Beth knew she was rusty at this, and perhaps the end result would look more like something one of the children would've made for her back at the prison than an accurate representation of Daryl Dixon in his element, but she didn't let her lack of practice for the task stop her. From her place at the table she peered over their half-eaten, makeshift brunch, and examined him closely. She observed his clothing, the way his worn leather vest hung from his broad shoulders, the way the sleeves of his faded black denim jacket were frayed and torn at the elbow. _Maybe I could mend it for him,_ she thought. _Just gotta find some needle and thread…_

Leaning over the table to get a better view, Beth tried to capture the expression in his eyes and his tense, concentrated stance, and to depict what she saw as faithfully as possible. For this particular portrait she relied on the sight of the man standing before her, but drew also on her memory.

And oh, such memory. After all, until last night they'd been out there, in the dark and dangerous woods.

Alone. Together.

For a long time.

They were alone now. Well, sort of. There was the dog, after all. Beth couldn't stop thinking about the creature. She'd asked Daryl to describe it, and when he'd told her of its state—skinny, scruffy, and with only one eye—she'd almost wanted to cry. _"Daryl, we gotta get him to come inside. Maybe give him some food,_ " she'd suggested hopefully. _"What if he's starvin'?"_ Daryl had only grunted at that, but Beth had felt his hand, warm and gentle and reassuring, upon her shoulder and she'd smiled to herself.

After that, Daryl had been practically lurching himself to his feet at the slightest noise, every clatter of the string of cans in the breeze. He'd motion for her to stay, and then he'd stand up, bow in hand, and hover by the kitchen door.

But still, the dog had not come back.

And now, all was quiet.

Well, almost.

For it was only in the absence of certain sounds that it became apparent just how damn noisy these old plantation style houses could be. And this one was far more kept-up than most places these days. But without constant buzz of electricity, without the gurgling of water pipes and boilers, without the hum of air conditioners and refrigerators—all the white noise that had accompanied so much of life before—every creak, every groan, every slight gust of wind rattling the boarded up shutters seemed amplified a hundredfold. Out there, Beth had grown used to the never-ceasing background noises of the forest. She mused to herself that perhaps, every now and then the beams of the house just liked to remind themselves of the trees they once were.

And so, _quiet_ was perhaps not the most accurate description. Because the house was about as quiet as the dead, Beth considered with a wry smile. Not the dead in those coffins in the other room, nor the dead in the ground outside. The dead that even now walked the woods. The dead that waited, hungrily, for their return.

But either way, a quiet of sorts had fallen over them. For Beth and her companion had not spoken a word to one another for some time, and this lent the not-quite-silence a strange heaviness.

It did not help that Daryl seemed oddly agitated. Not only did he get up to check on the door at every creak and groan, but he kept pacing back and forth, making it harder and harder for her to draw him properly. She wanted to tell him to hold still, but then she'd have to explain that she'd been secretly sketching him, and…

The moments dragged by. Beth was about to shout at the man to _sit down, damnit_ , but then, with a sigh, Daryl turned back from the doorway. She watched as he strode toward the table, expecting him to take his seat opposite her. Only this time he dragged his chair, its legs scraping against the linoleum, to the other side— _her_ side.

For what purpose, Beth did not know. Perhaps Daryl was simply curious about what she was writing. Instinctively, she slammed the pages of her diary shut, flushing slightly, hoping he hadn't seen what she'd _actually_ been doing.

Or perhaps, he had simply felt the same strange yet undeniable pull to be close that had gripped her today, since the very instant she'd woken to find him already arranging breakfast and almost flown down the flight of stairs into his waiting arms. From the moment he'd set her down in her seat across from him, she had to admit—a part of her had been waiting for him to move closer again.

When he'd gathered her into his arms and carried her through that door, it had been both like and unlike their game out there in the woods. For capture her he had—and yet, unlike in the forest, Beth hadn't struggled at all. She'd only clung tightly to him, and hoped he'd never have to put her down.

But now, with him sitting right beside her, his leg occasionally brushing against hers, the sudden lack of space between them was almost overwhelming. As he'd slid into the chair he'd so purposefully dragged beside her, she'd felt his fingers brush against her back, and she'd shivered.

It was not that it was unusual for them to sit beside one another. Nor was it unusual for his hands to find their way to her shoulder, back, or arm. Such closeness, such gestures had become as natural as breathing between them. And yet, after last night…what had once seemed normal and easy now seemed brimful of some deeper, hidden meaning.

Precisely what meaning, Beth did not know.

All the same, as the afternoon inched its way onward, she found herself growing increasingly anxious, increasingly excited, and increasingly nervous about tonight. For last night, up there in that attic bedroom, what had passed between them had been something…new. She was still not sure how far it might go, and she tried not to think about it. But her usually calm stomach fluttered now at his every touch, and there had been many that day.

And the day was not yet halfway done.

They had never spoken about what passed between them at night, and Beth had preferred it that way. She tried to tell herself this was the same, but she could not convince herself. Out in the woods, it was different. A touch was a wordless reassurance when you needed to be careful and quiet, lest a lurking walker find you, hidden beneath the dark pines. Daryl's hand on her shoulder, his breath at her back—all were silent, staunch support during their tracking sessions and crossbow lessons. Clasped hands could be a lifeline, while running from the dead in the darkness. An embrace at night was warmth and shelter and protection from the cold ground, from the chill autumn wind. But here in this house, such closeness was not a matter of life and death. Such touches were not strictly…necessary.

And yet, if anything, since last night, those touches seemed to have increased in frequency. And, Beth realized, all had been Daryl's doing, as though her very being were a lodestone and his hands and her fingers the points of a compass. Inside this house, in the light of day, all such closeness seemed heightened somehow. Words unspoken, thoughts that she had never allowed herself to think before, now rose to the surface, brought forth by each graze of his callused finger upon her.

"Hey, Greene," he rasped suddenly, causing her heart to thump faster. "I was thinkin'…"

If Daryl's soft, undemanding touches had caused Beth to shiver, his voice, so sudden, so close to her ear, nearly made her fall out of her chair. As it was, her hand trembled. Just slightly, but it was enough. She lost her grip on the pen and watched, helpless, as it rolled away across the table and fell, finally, to the floor.

"Dang it," she muttered. Before Daryl could finish his half-uttered thought, she stood up, pulled out her chair, and slid herself under the table.

In the space of a heartbeat, he had done the same. He now crouched across from her on the floor beneath the table, looking ridiculously too large to possibly fit into such a small space.

Beth could've laughed out loud at the sight of him. In that moment, she flashed to a distant time and place, in a world she'd thought long forgotten. She'd been a little girl at Sunday school, coloring pictures of Bible scenes, when she'd spilled the bucket of crayons everywhere. For some reason, to her child-mind this had been a supreme embarrassment, and so she'd crawled underneath the table and refused to come out. Eventually, another kid had joined her, thinking it was a game, much to the dismay of the teacher.

Here and now, under this table, she let herself feel like that little-girl Beth again, just for a moment, let herself pretend she and Daryl were just two kids playing fort under a table at Sunday school. That, if they just stayed under there forever, they'd be safe in their own world—they'd never have to run again.

There, on their knees upon the cold, hard linoleum, they fumbled together for a little while in the shadows beneath the low kitchen table. Beth heard Daryl mumble something like _"'the hell did it go?"_ while she patted the dusty floor around herself distractedly, only halfheartedly searching. For her companion's hand once more drifted to hers, his rough fingers brushing against her knuckles. Heart thumping wildly, Beth went completely still before him, all illusions of innocent childhood play now fled.

No matter how many times she'd thought him akin to a lost child, in that moment Daryl Dixon was all man. In that enclosed space, so awkward and cramped, the maleness of him was almost overpowering. For a second Beth felt unbearably young and small, and maybe she was. But if her companion was all man, then she was very much a woman, for last night they had slept wrapped in each other's arms, in an entirely different fortress of their own making.

That man was looking at her now, his face close, so close to her own. So close, in fact, she could almost taste the grape jelly on his breath, and could easily discern each individual hair of stubble upon his chin, each strand of hard-earned gray amidst the brown.

For a moment, she could not even remember how they had found themselves thus, on their knees, crawling toward each other like prowling beasts. _Oh. Yeah. The pen._ It was nowhere to be seen. _Must've rolled under the fridge._ Either way, it was out of sight. _And out of mind,_ Beth thought, as she looked into the slanting, feral eyes of the man before her—it seemed that for him, too, the original reason for his presence down there was already long-forgotten.

And as those eyes, bright-blue and full of _something_ , met hers, Beth wondered, with a flush, if perhaps they had found something else under the table.

Suddenly, the space grew too small, too enclosed, too confining. _A trap_. Beth swallowed down rising panic. No, of course it wasn't a trap, but the memory of metal jaws clamping around her ankle was still too fresh. Daryl moved slightly, just a hairsbreadth toward her. Heart thumping with a prey-like fear, she jerked upward and backward with all the instinct of creature of flight, and slammed her head against the table's hard, wooden underside.

There was a ringing in her ears, and she might've seen stars. "Oof," she grunted.

Daryl reacted immediately, but as he scrambled to get up and come to her aid, he hit his own head in the process. "Shit," he swore.

"You alright?" they asked each other simultaneously from either side of the table.

Was it her imagination or were his cheeks burning? She wondered, if she could see her own face right now, if it would be a mirror of his own.

Beth scooted herself out from that confining space, holding her head where she'd hit it. She tried to stand, awkwardly, dizzily. She held onto the table's edge as she felt the floor move beneath her, for a moment.

Extricating himself from the table, Daryl strode quickly around it and came up behind her. She felt him reach out and gently take her by the elbow to steady her. "Sure you're alright?" he asked, close to her ear.

"Yeah, just banged my head pretty hard. Seems like I just…keep gettin' myself hurt." She paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and then swiveled to face him.

If she'd thought Daryl's presence under the table overwhelming, he now seemed to loom over her, trapped as she was between him and the table's hard edge. Beth swallowed and looked up into his face. "You?" she said, suddenly a bit breathless.

"Huh?" He sounded distracted. "Oh. Yeah. 'm alright." He was looking down on her now with an oddly fervent expression. _"Could never live with myself…"_ he muttered darkly.

As his strange words washed over her, Beth felt a sudden burst of butterflies in her stomach. "Honestly, Mr. Dixon," she said, forcing a smile. "I'm _fine_."

She reached over, picked up her journal from the table, and slid it into her back jeans pocket. And then she made to move away, edging slightly toward the door.

"Where you goin'?" Daryl reached out then, but instead of grabbing hold of her wrist tightly to stop her as he had so many times past, he took her hand gently in his.

And held it.

Beth stared down at his hand, stared at the sight of it engulfing her own. "Um, upstairs? Think I saw some pens up there…"

Somehow, Daryl both pulled her closer to him and moved toward her at the same time. "Sit down, Greene," he said again. "You're swayin' on your feet. What's so goddamn important you gotta get it right now, anyway?"

She did not answer; he did not let go of her hand.

They stood there for some time, facing each other. Daryl still had her hand entrapped in his, and was still slowly, gently massaging it between warm palm and callused thumb. Beth could only gaze up at him and sway, ever so slightly, in her boots.

At this rate, she _would_ need help getting up those damn stairs…

Finally, Daryl spoke. "C'mon," he said quietly. "Sit down. I'll get it for ya. I'll be real quick."

"It's _okay_." She looked him straight in the eye. "Seriously. I can do it. 'Sides," she added, with a sheepish smile and a little limping dance, "I really gotta pee."

But still Daryl did not let go. He moved now toward the door, like he was going to help her. _Like he's gonna carry me…_

He bent his knees slightly, like he did when he was going to scoop her up in his arms. "No," she put out her free hand to stop him. "I'll be all right. Need to see if…if I'm ever gonna be able to… if I'm gonna run out there again, I need to…"

"Beth, don't—" he started to protest.

She shook her head, insistent. "Just…stay here, okay? You can, you know, see if he comes 'round again. The dog, I mean. Try givin' him some of those pigs' feet. Bet he's real hungry." Something in Daryl's eyes flickered at her words, just for a moment, making her catch her breath. "I'll be right back, I swear," she added gently, with a little smile.

And with that, she wrenched her fingers from his all-too warm and inviting grasp, and limped away out the kitchen door.

At the foot of the stairs Beth found their backpack where she'd dropped earlier, when Daryl had picked her up to bring her, grinning and giggling, through the kitchen door. She stooped now, picked it up, and slung it over her shoulder.

Even as she began her careful climb up the stairs, even as she gripped the cool wooden railing, Beth could still feel the burn of his touch, searing into her skin.

As she took each step one by one, slow as an old lady, far too slow for her liking, she tried to ignore the stab of guilt. Tried not to think about how, when she'd told him to stay and watch for the dog, it was he who'd resembled a lost puppy. _Don't be ridiculous, Greene. You're just goin' up the stairs. The man can take care of himself._

But all she could feel was the warmth still lingering from his touch. All she could see before her eyes was his strangely bereft expression as she'd left him standing there in the kitchen, all alone.

…

In the upstairs bathroom, Beth stood in front of the sink mirror, watching herself brush her teeth.

It had taken an age to climb the stairs, but once she was up there she'd finished her business quickly. You don't spend months in the woods with swarms of mosquitoes, hordes of walkers, and just one gruff male companion, and not learn to be lightning-fast about such things.

While she'd not yet found a pen, in one of the drawers beneath the sink she'd discovered something perhaps far more exciting—an unopened, brand-new toothbrush, along with a half-used tube of Ultra White Sparkle toothpaste.

There was of course no running water in the place, but it didn't matter—she'd easily make do in order to have clean teeth, not to mention fresh breath. Especially after those pigs' feet _…ugh._ Daryl had been generous to offer her one. Sweet, even. And so, she could hardly've refused. But combined with the diet soda and the peanut butter and jelly, well…she hadn't been able to shake the absolutely disgusting aftertaste.

As she swilled the minty paste around in her mouth, Beth couldn't help but glance at herself now and then, at her own eyes peering back out at her, owl-like, from behind the glass. Leaning over the sink, she looked more closely, but observed nothing in her face to hint at what had transpired downstairs. She examined her head where she'd hit it, and there was not even much of a lump. Nor did she see any sign of a blush upon her cheeks. Sighing, she thought that if anything, she just looked a bit wan, a bit tired.

Once, Beth might have agonized over the details of her appearance; once, she might have tried to brush and brush her hair into a smooth braid or ponytail, but no longer. Now, she barely noticed the wisps of wind-blown white gold, the permanent fuzzy halo that surrounded her face—she'd given up trying to tame it long ago. No, at this rate, she was just glad she still _had_ hair to speak of, that she hadn't had to do something drastic like hack it all off with Daryl's sharp hunting knife, or shave her head due to lice.

And so, once she was finished, she bared her freshly-cleaned teeth at herself and then turned away from the wide-eyed Beth-creature in the mirror, and thought no more about it.

She was about to leave the bathroom and resume her quest for a pen when she noticed something she'd missed in their initial sweep of the place the previous day: a small stack of books, atop which rested an illustrated children's Bible. Suddenly, Beth recalled the store of baby food down in the cupboard. At first she'd just assumed someone had found the jars on a run and kept them, thinking they would make as good a meal as anything at the end of the world. But now…she couldn't help but wonder. Did the person who lived in this strange place have a _child_? Or—and her heart constricted with an all-too familiar pain at the thought—did they have one once, but no more?

Beth swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly extremely dry. _Too much toothpaste, not enough water,_ she told herself.

With a growing lump in her throat, Beth shouldered the pack again and moved on, limping up the second flight of stairs to the attic bedroom.

Inside, she quickly scanned all the surfaces first, noticing some of the half-burned candles from last night. Then she moved to check the bedside table, and _…aha_. There in the top drawer she had found the jackpot—a whole stash of pens and stationary, more than she'd seen in ages. For a moment, she was tempted to take the whole lot, and stuff them into the backpack, but then she checked herself, recalling that the person who tended this place might yet return. So, she just picked out one pen, a hefty one that felt nice in her hand, and put the rest back.

Still standing in front of the nightstand, she set the pack down and pulled her diary from her back pocket. She opened it to the page where she'd left off, intending to resume her entry. Only there, staring back at her, were the hand-drawn, craggy features of Daryl Dixon. "Oh," she breathed aloud, remembering her surreptitious attempt to sketch her companion. The rough drawing was still incomplete, and she thought she could hardly finish it without its subject.

She closed the diary with a sigh. Her ankle had started to throb again, and she glanced over at the bed, contemplating sitting down for a minute. The throw blanket that had covered them both last night still lay rumpled atop the covers. With sudden force Beth recalled it—the feeling of being held in strong arms, close to a broad chest and an equally strong, beating heart. And now she could feel it, the flush returning to her face. And yet, still the strange lump in her throat remained, and she found that she no longer wanted to sit down on that bed, alone.

 _Fresh air_ , she decided, _that's what I need._ She hobbled to the other side of the little nightstand and paused in front of the window. The attic window was small, but so was she, and the frame was large enough that, when she leaned over and pushed it open, she could fit nearly her whole upper body through it. Cool air hit her face, blowing the wisps of her hair into her eyes, and gusting right through her clothing, chilling her to bone. But she breathed it in all the same, inhaling it deeply into her lungs, and then breathed it out again with a shuddering sigh.

Beth remained standing in front of the open window for quite some time, just…looking. Seeing. Observing. For she could gaze for quite a distance in a certain direction. And there, beneath the pale afternoon sky, she could make out the sloping roofs of other houses peeking through the treetops, and beyond that…naught but endless forest that stretched out into the horizon.

Closer at hand, from the window's ledge, she could almost reach out and touch the lower section of shingled rooftop—likely part of the awning over the storage area or laundry room, she guessed. On that roof stood a low, vented steeple and, atop it, a wrought-iron weather vane. Beth could still recall with great clarity a similar piece of sculpted iron back at the farmhouse, with a galloping horse gracing the top. It had always been her favorite, ever since she was a child. This one was a sailboat, and even now it swiveled in the strong breeze. It made her think back to a summer vacation with her family, to a pleasant view of such boats dotting a vast, glossy lake under a hot, beating sun. But then, she recalled a far more recent summer's eve, and an evening spend on a much different lake. A dark lake glowing like fire beneath the setting sun. And oh, she could still hear the soft beating of pale wings, could still see them gliding to land upon the surface of the water—a pair of swans mated for life.

That was when she noticed it, the spinning arrow of the weather vane. It squeaked as it spun in the breeze. As she watched it whirl past the four directions, it finally came to rest on the letter 'N'—North. She could not help but notice that it pointed in the direction of the waiting woods. _North again,_ Beth thought. _Just like that night at the lake._ A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the wind.

Her eyes darted back to the expanse of forest before her and her thoughts trailed off as she saw them. Like some black cloud they hovered above the branches of the trees behind the funeral home, cackling madly to one another. The crows circled something, some poor dead—or undead— thing. Beth could not see it, but she knew it was there, hidden somewhere deep in the trees. She watched the black birds, dozens of them, circling whatever it was for a long time, until they came to roost in the treetops, still cawing and squabbling amongst themselves.

Beth looked beyond them to the treetops, to the swaying pines and broadleafs that stretched seemingly for miles behind the back of the house. In that moment she knew not what the future might hold, if that dark wood she now gazed upon would prove once more their temporary shelter, or if it held naught but her own impending doom.

She had thought last night that they could make of this room a world entire, but she knew of course deep down that the outside world and all its demons would, sooner or later, come calling. For the world and all its darkness was ever-present, circling them like crows around carrion.

Thoughts she could not shake now materialized in her mind with full force. The person who'd tended this place. The person who may or may not have… _Oh God, please, not that. Not another child_. Beth sent her words, like a prayer, to the wind, and pondered the pain of a stranger's loss. She wondered, if she had looked hard enough out there in the graveyard would she have seen, amongst the headstones, a small, freshly-dug grave? The thought made her want to weep and be violently sick at the same time.

Lately, Beth had begun to wonder how much sadness this world could hold, how much loss it could sustain before it really did just…end. How much could be lost before humanity—in all senses of the word—simply ceased to exist? And once it did, she reflected that there would be no one left to record whatever was left in its wake, and no one left to care. Only the undead would remain. And then those unquiet revenants would haunt only each other, lingering for a time, until even they dwindled away.

Or could it be that she had, after all, been right? Was there indeed still some flicker of hope? Or, if not hope, then perhaps, at least, some _goodness_ left? Some, small chance that they—that humanity—could outlast this…whatever it was? Or would they just slowly, slowly fade away? Beth shook her head. She didn't know. She recalled with a pang what she had decided long ago: that it was better to burn hot and fierce and bright than to fade into nothingness.

Like the arrow of the weather vane spinning out of control, her thoughts now turned in yet another direction she'd tried hard to avoid—to Rick and Carl. To Michonne. To Maggie and Glenn. To all of them, all of those amongst their prison family who'd been so very strong—stronger than she, by far. All of them so capable, all of them who'd survived for so long, but were now seemingly lost. But were they, truly? Out of everyone at the prison, she knew these few at least would've stood a chance of escaping the Governor's wrath. _Just 'cause we didn't find any signs, doesn't mean they're gone._ Beth looked once more out across the treetops beyond. _Maybe they're out there. Maybe they're lookin' for signs, too. Thinkin' the same thing about us, wonderin' if we made it…_

 _"I'm not like you or them, but I made it."_

The memory of her own words, so defiant, so assured, hit her now like a cruel self-taunt. _I'm not gonna make it much longer, not like this…_ For in that moment Beth felt the frailty of her own small body. Her foot would heal, she was sure of it, but only if she were granted the time. And in this world, time was a currency more precious than gold. As it was right now, she knew her chances were still slim at best. Her one and only advantage out there—her speed and fleetness of foot—was at least, for now, gone. If they had to flee this very moment, if they had to run into the dark, waiting woods, she would be painfully, fatally slow. _Like Daddy._ Since she'd injured her ankle, she'd tried and failed not to think of her father, unable to escape when the Governor had caught him out in the forest beyond the prison…

He hadn't been able to run, either.

Out of old habit, without shifting her gaze from the open window, Beth touched the tip of her finger to the inside of her wrist. Making her way under the braided beads and charms of her bracelets, she found it easily—the thin, old scar beneath. Her already-racing thoughts now leapt to Daryl—Daryl, carrying her on his back through the graveyard the previous day. Daryl, carrying her up and down the stairs. The memory of his support and strength in her time of injury and weakness brought another lump to her throat. She swallowed hard, but the tightness did not disappear. All these weeks she had prided herself in her ability to match him, to outrun him, even. Was she just a burden to him now? Had she always been a burden, just another load to carry, for those stronger than herself?

It was then that, with sudden and strange clarity, Beth recalled a racehorse that had won the Kentucky Derby a few years before the turn. She remembered it well, being gathered with her whole family and the farmhands around the tv-screen in the living room, watching the young colt flying down the track at Churchhill Downs ahead of all of them, like he'd sprouted wings. He'd been hailed the next Triple Crown winner by all the news outlets and media. Everyone was sure of it. But then, the very next race, right there on the track at Pimlico, he'd broken down. His front leg, shattered in two places. Being so famous, he'd had the best vets, of course. The best possible care.

He'd fought long and hard.

But in the end?

 _"Some just aren't built for strength, Bethy,"_ her veterinarian father had told her when he'd found her in her room, weeping at the news that the beautiful thoroughbred had finally been put down. _"No matter how hard he fought, he was doomed. There was a weakness there, in his lines. In his blood. Deep in his bones. 'Sides, even if he lived, he'd never run again. Nothing more cruel than that, for an animal like him."_

Now, after so long on the run herself, Beth's thoughts turned to such creatures, bred for speed but not for strength, and her heart could have bled at the cruelty inherent in such a practice. What good was it, to be born with the instinct to gallop as fast as the wind, but not have been granted the stamina to do so?

What, she thought, was the point?

Doubts long-banished came to her now with all the force of a gust of autumn wind. What use was Beth Greene if she could not run? What use if she could not fight? The handgun could only get her so far; they only had so much ammo. To truly stand a chance against walkers—and anything else that might be out there— she needed both feet firmly on the ground, to balance, to kick out. To keep up with her companion. _What use am I, injured and slowin' us down?_

She could feel it, even now, after all this time—the cold shard of broken mirror, its edge sharp against her palm, the wound upon her wrist deeper still. The blood, red-hot and pulsing, flowing, dripping down onto the linoleum. Maggie's shrieking reprimand. Her own shame and regret, hotter even than the lifeblood running down her arm. She had changed her mind, had wanted to live, the very moment the piece of shattered glass had touched her skin. Since then, she'd not doubted that choice, not even after so many losses, each greater and more difficult than the next. But now… _maybe I should've just ended it back then, that day on the farm._ Something hot and wet spilled down her cheek. _I don't cry anymore_ , she reminded herself. Too late. It was the first time in a long time she'd let such thoughts—such dark, devouring thoughts—back into her mind.

Beth shook her head, shocked to feel hot tears spilling down her cheeks as she did. Such darkness might reign out there, but it had no right creeping its way back into her thoughts. Not now. Not after everything.

She remained there for a long moment, just looking out the window toward the distant forest. All remained silent, and still.

 _Still._

Her heart still beat within her, her blood still flowed through her veins. She still breathed. In this world, that alone was something. And on top of it all, she recalled the previous night, downstairs at the piano. How, after everything, she could still play. She could still sing. In that moment, Beth stood a little straighter, raised her tear-stained face a little higher. She was no racehorse, to be put down. Injured she might be, but… _I'm still here_ , she told herself. _I'm still strong._

Without even thinking, Beth unsheathed her knife. Not to open her veins, not to let the hot blood surge and spill crimson down across her pale skin, but to slice through the leather cords of the bracelets that encircled her wrist, those woven threads that had hidden her long-ago shame from view. She felt no such shame now, only a surge of fierce defiance. It had been the world's betrayal and the accompanying sense of hopeless despair that had driven her to such an action in the first place. For the new world, once unveiled before her eyes, had swiftly placed its dark upon mark her, had tried to claim her.

But a scar was no claim. Like words written on a page, like letters engraved onto a headstone, it told only the story of the past.

It told only of _what was_ , and held no power over _what might yet be_.

Without further hesitation, Beth leaned forward and tossed the handful of bracelets out the window. Tossed them to the breeze. The beads scattered, rolling down the sloping sides of the roof, down to the ground. Some of the leather cords floated away on that north wind, to end up in other abandoned places, their fates as yet unknown.

Lost in the moment, she was about to turn away, was about to close the window and shut out the increasingly-cold gusts of air, when there was a flutter of wings. She looked up, just as a crow landed on the roof just outside. The creature seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, materializing so close to the window ledge that she stifled a shriek and backed away in surprise. The large bird pecked at one of the beaded leather bracelets that had landed on the shingles of the roof. She watched, fascinated, as it picked it up in its beak. It lifted its black eyes to hers, gave a loud squawk, and, flapping its ragged feathers, flew off into the treetops beneath the lowering afternoon sky.

Heart in her throat, Beth watched as those dark wings disappeared behind the distant tree-line. She wondered if she should take this strange occurrence, this almost…uncanny behavior as some kind of sign. For it had to mean _something_ , as sure as there were walkers waiting in those woods. But what, she did not yet know.

She could not yet distinguish doom from destiny.

Tearing her gaze from the window, she quickly wrenched it shut and then limped over to the bed. She seated herself upon its edge with a shuddering sigh. Then, she unbuckled the holster that carried the handgun she'd found the previous day, for it was digging painfully into her side. Carefully, she set it down upon the nightstand. That damn gun, the very weapon she'd injured herself over. Beth wondered if it had been worth it. Despite her surge of defiance in the face of creeping despair, she still could not shake the feeling. The niggling fear that perhaps, after all, she might prove too small, too weak, too…fragile to win this particular fight against the world.

Such thoughts swirled, like autumn leaves on a breeze, before finally settling in the dark, forested corners of her mind. There they remained, waiting to be stirred once more by a cold north wind.

Once upon a time, a maiden had danced with death willingly—now, each and every day she and her companion narrowly avoided it, the very extinguishment of their earthly existence.

Sitting alone in the attic on the edge of the bed, Beth wondered if it would ever end, if there would ever come a day, just one day, when they could relax, when they could just…be. _"That's the way it's supposed to be."_ Daryl's voice echoed in her memory, husky and thick with something she'd once thought was wistfulness for a way of life he'd never known. Something she now recognized, with a fluttering heart, as longing—longing to be able give such a day to her.

With her journal open in her lap, Beth stared at the half-finished portrait of her companion. She had decided, after all, to attempt to complete it from memory before she returned downstairs. For she realized that she carried within her heart a picture of him that was as clear as if he were standing before her.

And yet, as she examined her little sketch more closely, she frowned. She had intended his expression to be serious, that of a hunter lying in wait for his prey. But the more she drew, the more downcast the man's slanted eyes seemed, the more despondent his figure became. Why had she drawn him standing alone? She considered adding the dog—or at least, her imagined version of it—there on the page beside him.

But before she could even place pen to paper to do so, her eyes began to water. She blinked, and when she looked back down at the page, Daryl's features seemed to swim before her, as though he were one of the faces down there, below the ripples, beneath the surface of the dark lake.

For a moment, Beth could no longer see the page at all.

All she could see was the face of her companion right before she'd turned away from him downstairs. That flicker of fear that she told herself she'd only imagined when she'd left him there, alone.

 _"I ain't afraid of nothin',"_ Daryl had once told her. Beth had known it for the lie it was then as she did now. Perhaps, at the time, losing the prison and their family in one, single blow had been his greatest fear come to pass. His worst nightmare, come true. But now, all she had to do was recall the way he'd just clung to her, holding her tightly by the hand like he did not want to let go, like he would not have let go even if walkers were tearing him to pieces, and she knew.

Fear did not easily find its way into the heart of such a man.

And yet, there it was. For over the last few days since she'd hurt her foot, it had become especially clear to her—Daryl was worried about her. Desperately. And up there, alone in that attic room, Beth had come to the realization that she, too, was afraid. Not of dying, no. _Everythin' dies_. The turning of the world had brought nothing new with it in that regard.

Rather, she was terrified of leaving him far too soon.

Certainly, over the last weeks and months, she'd clung to the will to live for her own sake. Yet since that night when she'd insisted that Daryl would be the last one standing, Beth had discovered that she could no longer bear the thought. She could not bear the prospect of leaving him here to face this world and its all-consuming darkness, alone.

 _"I'm just used to it, I guess,"_ he'd once said. She could still hear the hitch in his voice as he'd offered it to her, by way of explanation, on that moonlit porch so long ago. Perhaps that had been the moment she'd known she had to _do somethin'_ for him, too. The moment she knew she had to help him see it, had to wrap the beauty that she still saw in the world around them both. The world might indeed be ugly in so many ways, but there was still goodness in what was left of humanity. In themselves…in each other.

And perhaps, in others too. _"There's still good people, Daryl,"_ she'd insisted to him only yesterday. She had to believe it, even if he didn't. She had to at least try. It was all that remained.

Beth blinked once more, drew a deep breath, and turned to a fresh page.

And there, the words unfolded before her, and she knew what she had to write.

She didn't know when, but she knew they would have to leave this place. Sooner or later. They always would. Sooner or later, the dark would close in and catch up, and they'd have to run to keep chasing the light.

And so she began to write in plain, neat letters, with all the manners her momma had taught her: _"Dear Sir or Madam, you don't know us, but we stayed at your house while you were away, and we wanted to thank you for your hospitality…"_

The nameless person who'd kept this place secret and safe, who'd held back the darkness for so long, had no idea what a gift they'd given them, these precious days. And last night, especially… well, Beth knew such a gift could not last.

And so, she decided she would make tonight last. For each night could _be_ their last.

 _The last night with the last man._ Beth shivered. The man who hated goodbyes just as much as she.

Out in the forest, she'd once vowed to herself that she'd be the last one standing right alongside him. And later, that night of the hail, wind, and rain—the night they'd hidden from the storm in the cab of that truck and then run from strangers in a strange car. That night, she'd promised him: _"I'm not gonna leave you."_ But who was she to make such promises, to swear such vows? She knew not what tomorrow might bring.

(They might have to run. She might not make it if they did.)

She knew only that today, she was still here.

And so was he.

Today, they must _live_.

For, these days, _goodbye_ came all-too soon, and sometimes not at all. It mattered not, when the one you loved—yes, loved—was gone, gone, gone, all the same.

…

There on that bed, Beth felt an almost overwhelming pull to go back downstairs, to return to her companion as soon as possible. But she wanted to finish the note first, so she quickly penned a few more lines to the person who had given them this chance. This chance to rest— and perhaps to live—for one more night. She hoped her words sounded as sincere as she meant them. If a few wet splotches appeared on the pages, if her eyes stung, she tried to hold it back, tried to ignore it, just a little bit longer…

It was then she heard it, the creak of old floorboards. Out of instinct, she reached for her knife and raised her head in alarm. Even as she swiftly realized there was no danger, her heart still thudded as wildly as a hare fleeing before a hound as she heard Daryl's voice calling to her, "You alright up there, Greene?"

And then he was coming up the stairs, his boots heavy on the boards.

Her heart too full to answer in that moment, she just remained there on the edge of the bed, staring into her diary. A tear spilled down her cheek. _Nothin's alright and everythin's alright,_ she felt, deep down and twisty in her gut.

"Beth?" There was a shot of fear in his voice now.

She heard the creak as he climbed the stairs and the heavy clomp of his heels up each step. Roused out of her stupor by the sound of his steady approach—and by the strange clenching in her stomach that accompanied it—she quickly dashed the wet tracks from her cheek.

And then he was there, standing in the doorway.

He'd halted there beneath the door frame, and he stood there at the threshold for a long moment, as though hesitant to enter—as though reluctant to take the final step inside. Beth could not help but take some heart from familiar sight of him standing there with his bow slung over his shoulder. She almost wanted to ask him to stay there, so she could finish drawing him. Almost.

"Found ya, Greene," he said, sounding strangely breathless, as though he'd just tracked her a hundred miles through the forest. "Dog's still not back. Guess I scared it away." He sounded so sad in that moment that her heart constricted painfully. "Sorry," he added. If he was apologizing for his failure to catch the elusive creature, or his disregard for her earlier command, she couldn't tell. "Just…thought I might'a heard somethin'. Been up here a while. Thought I'd check on ya…" he trailed off for a moment.

Finally, Daryl set one foot tentatively across the threshold. As he did, his eyes narrowed, and he scrutinized her from the other side of the room. "You okay?" he spoke again, and his voice was so tender, his expression so full of concern as to send her heart into a sudden, frantic beating. It struggled against her rib cage, as though it would rather leave her body entirely and fly across the expanse of the attic room, right into his hands.

As he'd spoken, she'd lifted her face to him and his brow furrowed. Perhaps he glimpsed something in her expression, the evidence of hastily scrubbed tears, because before she could blink, he was across the room, kneeling before her.

He was on one knee before her now, his bow clattering to the floorboards beside the bed. He had, before she'd even realized it, taken her hand, enfolded it in his own.

"I'm okay," she breathed, though her voice wavered, and she knew she sounded less-than convincing. She looked down at where he'd placed his other hand, warm and reassuring, upon her knee. "I'm okay, I'm okay."

"No, you ain't." Daryl stood up again and moved to sit next to her upon the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked softly beneath his added weight as he settled beside her. He inclined his head, searching her face for some kind of explanation. It was then he noticed the open diary in her lap, and he gestured to the pen resting in the crease of its binding. "Found one, huh? What're you writin' in that thing, anyway?"

She took a deep breath. "I was just…leavin' a 'thank you' note."

He tilted his head. "Why?"

"Just wanted to say thanks," she shrugged. "For when they come back. Even if…even if they're not comin' back, I still want to say thanks."

His eyes narrowed again. "That what got you all tore up?"

Beth didn't know how to reply—yes, and no, she thought. So she just sat, looking down at the open pages of the journal, and the unfinished note, and said nothing.

"Mmm," he grunted, still watching her closely. She felt his familiar gaze flicker over her. "So, been thinkin'…" he began, somewhat hesitant. He gestured down at her half-written note. "Maybe you don't gotta leave that. We ain't goin' nowhere, not yet. Maybe we…" he drew a deep breath. "Maybe we stick around here for a while."

Her eyes widened at his words. She'd anticipated staying another night, maybe two at most. She hadn't expected this. "But the person who lives here. You said you didn't think…?"

"We could…make it work," Daryl shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Might be crazy, but…might be alright."

She couldn't help but beam up at the man, and in that moment it took all her strength not to just throw her arms around him completely. "So, you _do_ think there are still good people around."

He looked away now and gave a little shrug, tilting his head, as though dismissing the statement. But of course, she knew him better than that.

From where he sat beside her, he was so damn close she could feel every slight movement of his shoulders, every creak of leather, could feel his jeans slide against her own. She could once more see every hair of stubble on his chin, the little crinkle in the corner of his eye, the quirk of his thin lips. For the first time, she noticed just how damn _pretty_ his eyelashes were, and the observation made her giggle nervously.

Feeling oddly lightheaded, she blurted, "What changed your mind?"

He shrugged again, still not quite meeting her eye. "I'unno."

Beth was used to this. She'd not relent until she had an answer from him though, not this time. "Don't ' _I'unno_ ," she teased gently. "What changed your mind?"

But still her companion did not reply, only lifted his head. And then, and then…his eyes found hers. Eyes that had, at times, held an almost feral intensity before which any other heart would have cowered. Eyes from which Beth Greene had never turned away, not even in the days they'd held naught but sullen despair or even furious rage. Eyes that had, over the last weeks and months, softened with increasing care and, she had come to think, admiration.

Eyes that now conveyed only tenderness and…something else.

In their time out there in the forest, the need for spoken words had long-since fled. Out there, thoughts had passed between them through look, glance, and increasingly frequent touch. And so, though they now sat together within the confines of four walls and a roof, Beth held herself still and opened herself to his mind. She sat patiently beside him, absorbing the heat of his gaze for many long moments. That gaze burned so fervently into hers that she almost wondered if this would be the day she'd finally go blind.

But her sight remained as yet unclouded. Beth blinked once, twice, and then wondered at herself, that she had not seen it sooner.

For there, in the flicker of those twin blue flames, she found it. His meaning, if not his precise words. _"You,"_ his eyes blazed. _"You changed my mind. I could stay here. With you. You're all that I ever—Jesus, Beth, don't you see? Everythin' that's beautiful and good, so damn good, all that's left in this godforsaken world...it's you."_

"Oh," she breathed, so softly she was not even sure she'd spoken aloud. " _Oh_."

She had thought it was all just because of her injury that they had stayed even this one night. She had worried she was just holding them—holding him—back. Thought maybe she had, after all, turned out to be nothing but a burden to him. But she saw it now, saw _him_ now, and perhaps saw herself, through his eyes.

And then she thought, surely, she had indeed gone blind. For her vision blurred again, not with bad moonshine, but with a fresh flood of hot tears that now began to fall in earnest.

As those tears slid from her eyes to her cheeks and onto the pages on her lap, her companion sat patient and still beside her. "Beth?" he finally said, his voice scratchy but soft. She felt his arm come tentatively to rest around her shoulders. "What is it? I didn't mean to—" he faltered, grasping for the right words. "Shh, hey, don't…"

Without hesitation, she leaned into him, resting her head against his chest. She wanted to insist that Beth Greene didn't cry, not anymore. But she recalled how she'd already lost hold of her emotions on more than one occasion out there in the woods, and here and now, well…she found she simply couldn't stop the flood of saltwater now seeping into his shirt.

There was a moment in time when she thought they might have been holding their breaths, but then, _oh_ —Beth felt strong, familiar arms come circling around her, felt him gather her close to his chest. As he drew her to him, the space between them disappeared. She now sat sideways upon his lap, on his knee, almost as a child, her head still resting upon his shoulder, her face nearly buried into his neck.

And there in his arms, in that firm embrace, in that attic room, the weight of the world seemed to fall away, and with it the guards she had tried to keep upon her own tremulous emotions.

If Beth Greene wept now, it was no longer out of fear of fates unknown, but rather an overwhelming sense of relief. For she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Even so, there in her companion's arms, she did not sob—indeed, she barely made a sound, but let the tears stream silently down her cheeks. Nestled into his neck as she was, she was surely soaking the collar of his shirt right through, but Daryl did not seem to mind. If anything, the longer she shook against him, the tighter he held her, rocking her ever so slightly in his arms. With one hand he now began to smooth away the wisps of her hair from her cheeks, her mouth, and then he gently pressed her head into him where she rested against his shoulder. His breath gusted warm against her ear and neck as he murmured wordless, soothing sounds into her hair.

He'd done this before, or at least, she recalled him comforting her beneath the dark pines when she'd woken, disoriented and fearful, from her nightmares. But that was out there, under the stars, and this was…

She squeezed her eyes shut, buried her face still further against the hard man who held her so gently. And then she breathed a shuddering sigh, as a child does when finished with weeping.

Finally, the tide that had unleashed itself upon her began to recede. Even so, Daryl still held her close against him and made no move to release her. Neither did Beth stir, but allowed herself to remain in his arms, there upon his lap, just…breathing him in. And, just like the previous night, she caught the familiar forest smells still lingering upon him and upon his garments. She drew comfort from the faint woodsmoke, the worn leather, and his own deeply familiar scent.

With each passing moment, with each quickening breath, she could have sworn the man tightened his hold around her. Perhaps he too had sensed the precariousness of her foothold, the fragility of her very existence. Perhaps he recalled her words that long-ago night at the cabin, when she'd told him, so matter of fact, that she'd be gone someday. Perhaps he sensed that _someday_ might even now be fast-approaching. Or, perhaps, he just desired to comfort her, he who had once thrown this very fragility in her face. _"I never cut my wrists for attention."_ She recalled it now, her defiance in the face of his anguished wrath. Beth could hardly believe they had once been so estranged, had once held such serpents in their minds, waiting to strike.

She had not backed down from him out there, not once. Perhaps, he wouldn't have had it any other way. It seemed to her now that he even…admired her for it. More than admired. For the man who held her now in his embrace did so not merely out of admiration, nor even understanding, patience, and care, but… _love_.

As the realization tumbled from her mind into her heart, she nearly gasped aloud. Beth wondered that Daryl could not hear it loud and clear, could not feel her heart thudding against his chest.

Or perhaps, he simply could no longer distinguish its beating from his own.

He'd wrapped one arm around all the way around her back now, cradling her still ever-closer to him. As though she were something precious, to be protected at all costs. Something he simply could not afford to lose. His fingers came now to rest against the back of her head, just there at the nape of her neck. His other hand remained upon her cheek, stroking and smoothing away the dampness, the last remnants of that strange and sudden sorrow.

Her own hands rested lightly against his chest, and just as his thumb moved to brush against her cheek, her ear, her neck, so did her touch travel upward now, across his broad chest, along the exposed skin along the ridge of his collarbone, up his neck, to the hollow of his throat. She lingered there against his warmth for a time, her pianist fingers light and gentle, and yet firm and confident at the same time.

As Beth continued tracing little circles against his neck, chin, and there, just below his ear, Daryl drew a sharp intake of breath. But unlike previous times, when she'd heard that sound, she did not stop, did not even pause, but continued the slow, delicate movements, enjoying the sensation of the pads of her own small fingers against his warm, rough skin. And, she realized, enjoying his shuddering response, the way he pressed her against him more firmly at each little stroke, each little touch of her fingers, there against those sensitive places. The way his breath faltered a bit, and his lips moved more and more firmly—more and more _possessively_ —against her hair.

They remained there, upon the edge of the bed—upon the edge of forever—for long moments, just stroking and touching and feeling. If the shadows in the room deepened around them, if the faint afternoon light began to fade outside the little window, they paid no heed. They gave no notice to the passage of what, these days, passed as time. Rather, their fingers danced an eternal dance, light and undemanding upon smooth cheek and rough, careworn skin, each caressing the other as though they could somehow, _somehow_ protect the one they touched.

As though the burning traces, left behind upon the places where their all-too human skin lay exposed to the world, might blaze brightly enough to keep the encroaching darkness at bay.

…

* * *

 ****** IMPORTANT REMINDER ******

 **Please respect my wishes NOT to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you!** :)


	2. Amor fati

…

 _Amor fati_

'Love thy fate', or 'embrace your destiny.'

In which all is revealed.

* * *

"From peasant to knight; one man can change his stars."  
- _A Knight's Tale_

…

Still seated upon Daryl's lap, still encircled within the world of his arms, Beth cautiously lifted her head from his shoulder.

Slowly, carefully, she raised her hand to brush a tangled lock of his hair from his face. She blinked up at him, once, twice, as one who has but only recently regained their sight.

The light had not yet faded so much that she could not see, and for the first time since he had conveyed those silent thoughts to her in answer to her question, she looked, really _looked_. She studied the rough-hewn features before her: his heavy brow, the slight curve in the corner of his thin lips. Close as she was, she could feel the heat emanating from his sun-tanned skin, and could see the faint flush where the blood had rushed to his cheeks—perhaps, beneath her scrutiny, she realized, smiling a little. And, oh, the slants of his eyes, bright and shining, like an autumn sky on a clear, crisp day.

He lifted those eyes to hers now, and she met his gaze, unflinching as always, and held it for as long as she could.

And then, she couldn't help it—she moved her hand to gently caress his face once more.

After a heartbeat, maybe two, she felt Daryl shift slightly, felt his fingers come up to cover hers. Holding her there against his cheek, he leaned into her touch. His eyes closed then, like he was trying to savor the moment, like he still could not believe it was real. The bones of their fingers pressed together as he cradled her hand against his face. Daryl tilted his head further into her, and his lips moved, first against her palm, and lower, against her wrist. Against her pulse, against the very spot where she'd once sought her own end. That pulse now quickened; Beth felt as though this solemn kiss had echoed beyond the bounds of time and space, into the past, and had breathed life into the very chambers of her heart.

His eyes fluttered open and he released her, her wrist slipping from his grasp. But he held her gaze, looked right into her. Eyes soft, plaintive. " _Beth_." Her name, uttered now, after all that had—and all that had not yet—passed between them, startled her.

She breathed deeply to steady herself and glanced down for a moment, needing to look anywhere but into those piercing eyes. She sensed some question of his own now behind the sudden speech, and she wasn't sure if she'd be able to give him an answer.

Daryl waited for an interminable length. But in the end, he neither asked for anything nor demanded any answer from her. He only gently, so gently, placed his forefinger beneath her chin and his thumb against her bottom lip, and then raised her face to his.

Her heart thudded and for a moment, she froze. More than any enclosed space, more than his arms closing in around her in their game out there in the forest, this subtle movement, this restrained gesture, had entrapped her as thoroughly as a cottontail in a snare. And this time, she neither struggled nor moved away—for Beth Greene did not mind being caught thus, not by this particular hunter.

She thought she knew perhaps what he wanted. What he was too shy, or too accustomed to being the gentlemen to take without permission.

Before anything else could happen, before either of them could speak again, Beth buried her face into his neck once more. Only this time, as she nuzzled into him, she searched for the spot she had long been drawn to—the juncture of his ear and neck. Once found, she lingered there, moving slow and careful. She parted her lips against the place where his blood surged, running her tongue lightly in a little circle. Daryl drew some sharp, inaudible breath, and then his mouth was against her hair—not for the first time in their time together. But this time…oh, this time he was kissing her, _really_ kissing her, his lips pressing hot and firm but tender onto her forehead, her cheek, her ear, and downward, along the sensitive surface of her neck, all the while holding her tightly against him.

They remained thus for a long moment, trembling lips moving slowly, gently, firmly against shivering skin. In this they stoked a fire so long avoided—and yet so long awaited—that it was almost as though they could not help but dance around it just a little while longer. For each now found the other's face, and each in their turn pressed little kisses, left trails of fire along ridge of cheekbone, chin, and the tantalizing, inviting corners of their mouths.

And so it was that when their lips finally met, when hers parted beneath his, Beth thought she knew why they had, for so long, circled around this. For Daryl's mouth was hot and hungry against hers, his thin lips unrelenting, demanding even, and her mouth opened for him without question. As the stubble of his beard rubbed rough as sandpaper against her, she wondered, breathlessly, if he'd leave her bleeding.

Oddly, this did not disturb her—she only leaned in closer, kissed him harder. Never had she experienced it thus—her shy first times with Jimmy behind the barn, even the heaviest of her secret make out sessions with Zach in his car had not approached this…this fervor. This feeling like something fierce and wild inside her had sprung to life, had finally answered its call and was now clawing its way out.

Her companion was nothing but equally fierce, equally wild in this—for as he bent himself over her, she felt him grip her ponytail in his fist and pull her head back slightly. Not hard enough to hurt, no, but rough and insistent all the same. Soon, his tongue joined the effort, and the sensation was a welcome intrusion. She did not struggle, but rather the opposite—she found herself clutching the edge of this vest, tugging at his weather-beaten second skin as though to free him from it.

There in his lap, in his grip, as he moved his mouth against hers, she felt a surge of wetness between her thighs, and she gasped with it. Nothing in her previous experience had prepared her for the intensity of her response to this man. And she knew in that moment that she was lost—that, even if Daryl Dixon had not been the only man left to her in the world, he'd still be the only man for her, the only man she'd want to kiss ever again.

Other than his plaintive whisper of her name, no further words now passed between them, only touches and tastes of increasing urgency. Beth could not have spoken even if she wanted to, for she could scarcely draw breath between each deepening kiss. Daryl did not speak either, but made strange sounds, sounds she'd never heard from him before. Faint groans and ragged sighs against her mouth that went straight through her body, sounds that quickened her breathing and made her sigh and shudder in her turn.

With hands strong and warm, and perhaps trembling, he now began to grasp and touch parts of her as-yet covered by her clothing, but burning, burning all the same.

As they explored one another, the movements of their hands and mouths at once rough and tough and sweet and yielding, Beth wondered _how_. How could they have wasted so much precious time? How could they have spent so long together, surviving, growing closer and closer, and not allowed themselves even a small taste of this? How could they not have tasted one another every single moment they'd spent out there, nestled amongst the fallen leaves, sheltered beneath the swaying branches, lying together under the stars?

But of course, the answer revealed itself within the question. If they had allowed themselves even one such kiss, it seemed to her that the heat of it would have been all-consuming. She could well believe that this particular fire, lit aflame even a moment too soon, could have ignited a conflagration so wild, so hot, as to burn a hundred cabins down—an entire forest—to the ground.

Breathless and shaky, they finally wrenched their lips apart. Each held the other in their gaze for what seemed to her an eternity, as though they had looked a hundred times but never truly _seen_ each other before.

But then, Daryl's hands resumed their movements against her back, moving now up to the slope of her shoulder, and she felt him pull her close to his chest once more. As his mouth engulfed hers, as he enveloped her with his arms, his hands, his body—and as she touched and tasted him in return—all such thoughts, all such questions and fleeting regrets fled in the ever-increasing heat of their movements.

For what did time matter now? All had changed. Or perhaps, she thought, all had simply been revealed. All that was between them, now rising to the surface, manifesting itself in all its perilous splendor.

And there in his arms, Beth trembled with the power of it.

…

If someone had asked her later, she could not have pinpointed the precise moment when all had changed. When their embrace had shifted from sweetness and tender care, to something darker and far more desperate.

Perhaps, it had been when their lips had finally met and clung after so long wanting. Or perhaps moments later, when Daryl's hand had found its way to her stomach, and then to her waist beneath her shirt and sweater, his callused fingers hot as brands against her shivering skin. Perhaps it was when she'd arched her back, pressing herself into him in response. Perhaps, it was the way his touch had traveled like wildfire up and down the length of her body, from the slight curve of her hip to her waist and then, higher still. The way she'd taken his hand in her own, and held it there, against the worn fabric of her bra, against her breast. Perhaps, it had been his shuddering, surprised sigh at the feeling of her beneath his hand. Perhaps, it was the way she'd held the bones of his fingers, bending them to her will, assisting them in squeezing and holding her body _just so_.

Or perhaps it was the sound she had made, something like a plaintive sigh and moan, right into his mouth as she did.

It mattered not _when_. All Beth knew was that a flame had cracked and sparked to life between them, as fierce and wild as a moonshine-lit fire—the fire they had, for so long, held at bay. A fire from which there was no fleeing, now that it had begun to consume them and all that might have once stood in its path.

Their lips met again, and again, as though they could not now help but add yet more fuel to its raging. Each coming together of their mouths and bodies was both more ardent and more desperate than the next. In this, Beth frightened herself, for the dark ferocity of this meeting and parting was almost too much to bear. As though with each clatter of teeth, with each exploratory thrust of their tongues, with each shuddering breath and gasping moan, they drew closer and closer to the moment, yes… _the_ moment she knew must be fast-approaching.

And yet, they were both fully-dressed, and it was still only late afternoon, and… _Lord save us_. She knew not how to proceed. How could she take that ultimate plunge, how could she cross that one, final line?

She looked up into the storm-ravaged eyes of the man who held her now to him, fast and firm, as though he feared she would evaporate into nothingness if he let go, as though she would slip away from him even so, like she almost had that strange day at the lake. As though he would sooner drown himself in those dark waters than be for a moment without her.

And she realized…how could she _not_?

All Beth knew was that it would not be humanly possible for her part from him now. To go back downstairs, resume their meal, and pretend that this had never happened. _Might as well pretend the world never turned._ If Beth hadn't been so overwhelmed with a hundred thousand sensations, she would have snorted at the thought.

For there was no way she could content herself with finishing that makeshift brunch they'd been sharing. No way she could sit quietly beside him for what remained of the afternoon, sketching his likeness, and just…waiting. No way in hell she'd be able to wait for nightfall to lie down with this man. Not now.

Beth could scarcely believe that only a short while ago she had fretted and worried and let fear and confusion and dark shadows come creeping back into her thoughts. Had thought she might be better off leaving this world. That she had nothing left to give.

But oh, she had something left.

She could give of herself to him. Not just her body, but her very being. She could love him, oh yes, she could love him—she could pour into him all the great, encompassing love she still had inside her.

She didn't know that she already loved him. That she had loved him for a long, long time. Loved him with her eyes shining in the moonlight and her _we should burn it down_. Loved him with the soles of her feet moving in swift rhythm to his long stride upon the forest floor. Loved him with his knife in her hand and his crossbow cradled in her arms. Loved him with her fingers clasped tightly in his. Loved him as she'd lain nestled against him beside their fire beneath the stars, beneath the dark night sky.

Loved him as the last woman loves the last man standing.

(She didn't know that he had loved her, longer still.)

And so, Beth did what she had to do. All that remained to be done.

She stood up, carefully, and wrenched herself away from him, ignoring the confused, almost bereft expression that now crossed his face.

She'd have to act fast, before he had a chance to speak. Before he had a chance to protest.

Before she had a chance to change her mind.

And so, with deft movements, with quick fingers, Beth reached down and tugged at the hems of her sweater and faded yellow shirt. Then she pulled them right up and over her head.

The garments dropped to the floor, forgotten. She stood now before him in her old, tattered bra, just like she had, by sheer accident, that strange summer's day in the forest, the morning after the moonshine.

Without further hesitation, she raised her booted foot to his knee, digging the heel into his thigh, ever so slightly.

"Beth, what—what're you…?" Daryl began in a choked voice.

"Shh," she said, leaning forward, close enough to touch a finger to his lips. "Boots."

"Wha—?"

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Just help me get 'em off," she said, soft but insistent. Impatient, even.

To her surprise, just like the previous night, her companion silently obliged. He removed each boot slowly, gently, careful with her still-bandaged foot. She felt his eyes on her, felt his hand linger for the briefest of moments on her ankle before letting go again.

Quickly she unbuckled her belt, that which had so faithfully and for so long carried her little bone-antlered knife, which it still held, snug in its sheath. Then, hopping on one foot, Beth shimmied out of her jeans. It took a little doing and, limping as she was, it was surely not her most graceful moment. But soon, she was standing before him, clad only in her long woolen socks, bra, and underwear.

It was somewhat unnerving to stand so purposefully, so intentionally bare after so long keeping her weapons close. After so long keeping herself ready to run at any moment. But it was also oddly freeing. Unclad, unshod, and unarmed as she was, Beth nonetheless felt…defiant. Daring, even.

And maybe she was. Daring herself, daring him. Daring the world and all its darkness to flee before her face.

She took a deep, steadying breath. And then, finally, she turned on her uninjured heel, angling herself slightly away from him. With one had she reached behind herself and quickly unhooked her bra. It landed silently atop the rest of her garments in their pile on the floor.

When Beth turned to face him once more, she realized she was holding her breath. She hadn't known what to expect. Despite the previous attentions of two very…appreciative boyfriends, she'd always been a little bit shy about her slight figure. Always a bit hesitant, when the moment had come, to reveal her small chest. For she was all-too aware that she was not buxom and curvaceous like the women who had, before the world had gone to hell, graced magazine covers and danced across tv-screens into men's fantasies.

(She knew she was not like her sister.)

But Daryl did not seem to notice. Or rather, he most assuredly _did_ notice, but did not seem to mind. In fact, he was looking at her with something approaching awe, like a man temporarily blinded by the sun.

 _Or moonshine,_ she thought, grinning.

(Beth supposed she could live with being something tempting. Something _strong_. Something Daryl Dixon might hold in his hand and drink, long and deep.)

But her grin faded as the man averted his gaze and looked away. She remembered then, that Daryl had needed urging even to partake of that substance that day— _her_ urging. And indeed, though only moments ago he'd been touching her in places he'd never before dared, now that she stood naked and vulnerable before him, he seemed reluctant to even look his fill, let alone lay a hand upon her. As though he still held himself to some standard, some code, some ideal from a world long-gone. As though he was trying to uphold some imaginary law he'd place upon himself. _Like he's still tryin' to be my chaperone._ Beth had to hold back a wild giggle at the thought. _Dontcha know, Mr. Dixon? We're outlaws nowadays. Runnin' through the forest with our crossbow and our sharp knives. Breakin' and enterin'. Helpin' ourselves to a stranger's stash. So we might as well make the best of it._

Standing there, with hardly a stitch of clothing in that drafty attic room, Beth was quickly growing cold. Goosebumps raised the soft, downy hairs on her arms and on her legs and she shivered. She knew her bared nipples fared no better. _I need a man's hands to warm me,_ she wanted to tell him. Almost immediately she blushed, wondering if she'd actually said it out loud. Lord knew she enjoyed teasin' the man, but this was different. Daryl seemed oddly…troubled.

Beth frowned a little as she observed him there on the edge of the bed, his eyes downcast. _Lookin' anywhere but me._ He appeared, in that moment, almost like that drawing she'd attempted earlier. She wondered now if there was, perhaps, something deeper than just an outdated ideal that guarded his eyes and stayed in his hand.

Something stirred in her then, a memory of nights long-past, a memory of a man's boots echoing down the corridor of the prison hallways. A man awake, watchful, and…alone. Lying awake and likewise alone in her little cell, Beth had always known it was him. Had, at times, wondered if she should throw all propriety to the wind and go out there, and go to him. But then, some nights, she'd hear another pair of footsteps and her father's familiar, soothing baritone. This would be quickly followed by the first man's rasping reply that _all was well_.

Beth recalled it now—how in Rick's absence from leadership, Daryl and her father had, between them, held things together for a long time. How, in doing so, they had come to hold each other in a deep and mutual respect. Being on the council together, the two men had grown close in the last months before…before the Governor had returned and destroyed everything.

Though her daddy had never said as much, of course, she knew that he had held Daryl in high regard. Loved him, even. Maybe not as a son, not exactly. But as _family_. Not just the way they'd all loved the folks at the prison, but as one of those who'd been with them from the very start. (Or was it the very end? Beth was never sure.) Either way, Daryl had been there, protecting her family since their lives had first crumbled around them, since their farm had burned to ashes and they'd all had to hit the road. Rick might've been the leader, but Daryl had been the one who'd kept them all safe and fed that winter on the run. The one who'd kept them _livin'_ for so long. And then at the prison, after Lori, when Rick had lost it…well, Beth knew her father had been grateful for Daryl then. Deeply grateful.

Perhaps, Beth thought, the two men had recognized something of themselves in the other—two mirroring, intertwining paths of _maybe's_ and _might've been's_. And it came to her then that, from her father, Daryl would have received a paternal sort of regard—the sort he'd likely never experienced before in the whole of his hard life.

To a man who'd once thought himself _nobody, nothing_ , such respect would have been…everything.

For the rest of her days, Beth would never forget how torn up Daryl had been to lose her father, specifically. More than anyone else he'd been close to amongst their family. More than Rick, even.

No, she'd not been alone in her grief, not by a long shot.

It was no wonder Daryl had been as he'd been, before the moonshine. Before they'd set themselves free.

And so, standing unclothed before him now, she pondered this and wondered if perhaps the man's hesitation stemmed from something else. Some gallant—albeit misguided—attempt not to dishonor Hershel Greene's memory. _Like Daryl could ever do that,_ she thought. Why, only yesterday he'd placed those flowers upon that grave, and then their hands had met and clasped, and…

 _…Oh._

Tears pricked her eyes, and Beth swallowed, hard. Perhaps, at last, she understood. That, for reasons long-ingrained, long-internalized well before the turning of the world, Daryl Dixon believed himself somehow undeserving, unworthy to hold in his hands what he nonetheless so plainly desired.

Indeed, though she was standing before him in only her thin, worn panties, standing close enough to feel his every breath upon her bare skin, Daryl was still looking anywhere but her. He stared down at his hands in his lap as though they didn't belong to him, like he had no idea what to do with them in that moment.

And so, Beth did the only thing she knew—she once more laid her fingers gently against his, soothing, undemanding. She placed one hand over his, and said not a word for a long time.

Finally, after what seemed like a century but could only have been mere moments, Daryl roused himself and raised his eyes to hers. She shivered, for the change was palpable. Like the electricity buzzing to life to light an old house after years of darkness, the very air around them now seemed to hum with a pulsing charge.

Like so many times before, he held her fast within his searing gaze. His hand likewise closed around hers, tightened around her fingers, and he pulled her silently towards him. Her bared chest was close, so close to his face, and the warmth of his breath gusted across her chilled skin, across the peaks of her hardened nipples. The warmth of his breath heated the pendants that dangled between her breasts, so much so that she wondered if she were to look down again, she might find a little heart-shape, and the mark of a cross branded upon her skin.

But still, his eyes held hers. Their bright-blue depths held a now-undisguised longing, and a plea. Words long-unspoken trembled upon his lips. "You…really… _want_ …?"

" _Yes_ ," she whispered—an answer to the half-spoken question, the question still burning within his gaze. And then Beth brought Daryl's hand up to her lips and kissed his palm, a blessing, permission to touch and take all he wanted.

(For it was what she wanted— _desired_ —as well.)

Daryl had surrendered his hand to her will with a sigh; Beth drew it now closer, and closer. "Here," she said finally, resting his palm against her chest, against the beating of her heart.

When he did not snatch it away, when he made no protest, she gradually began to move his open palm across her nearly-naked form. She slid his hand first to her slender waist, and then— _oh god_ —up to her bared breast. She lingered there for a moment, hoping that whatever hesitation was left in him might dissipate against her soft skin, against the gentle curves of her body. Then, she guided him down again past the flat expanse of her belly, letting go now, leaving his hand to rest upon the slightness of her hip.

In response, the hard tips of his fingers dug into her flesh and bone, and that was when she could no longer help it—she leaned further into him.

No longer did she guide him, but let him find his way. No longer so hesitant, he now forged his own path upon her chilled and trembling body. He took each of her small breasts into his mouth, gently, one by one, dragging each each nipple between his parted teeth. And as he did… _ohhh_ …his hands gravitated lower. Gripping, touching, pulling…his callused fingers dipped, just slightly, beneath the thin, worn fabric of her panties.

As his mouth moved against her, as his hands roamed warm and firm over her body, Beth could not help but gasp aloud once more. She felt him begin to trace the ridge of her spine with his fingertips, sliding against her back, pressing her closer, drawing her to him. And then she found herself kissing the top of his head, twining her fingers into his hair, drawing him closer to her as well. As she did, his arms tightened around her and he nuzzled his face into the shallow valley between her breasts.

He remained there for a few moments, close, so close to her beating heart.

When he finally wrenched himself away and gazed up at her, his expression overawed, almost anguished. Even so, he yet held her tightly, so tightly. Beth felt the increased pressure of his grasp upon her, felt the rough pads of his fingertips digging into her skin—as though, paradoxically, now that he'd given into this, touching was no longer enough. As though he now longed to find his way _in_ , to claw his way inside her.

Shivering slightly against him, Beth lowered her head to dust a kiss or two over his face. Once more, she was inexorably drawn to his pulse, to the blood surging warm under the skin of his throat. But she was swiftly growing tired of craning her neck downward to reach him. Tired of standing there, on her dully throbbing ankle.

And so, she decided to make herself more comfortable.

Without another moment's hesitation, she sat down again on Daryl's lap. Only this time, she straddled him.

Once more, she gave the man no time, no opportunity to protest. As she settled herself down on him, Beth could not help but shudder with pleasure at the way the fabric of his jeans rubbed, rough and worn, against her bared thighs. The way his belt buckle felt, hard and cold, against her panties. The way his own hardness felt through his jeans, pressed up against her own growing wetness.

But it was the way his leather vest clung to her bared chest—like a second skin—that made her moan softly. That made her arch her back, and roll her hips against him.

Set afire by her own need, as well as her desire for the man beneath her, Beth could hold back no longer. She resumed her furious kisses, pressing her lips against his neck, his ear, and the corners of his mouth, eliciting equally desperate groans from deep in his throat.

In response, Daryl hands closed around her waist and he held her down against him, hard enough to make her gasp and squeak. His touch continued up and down and across her skin, his fingers seeking and finding previously hidden pathways.

Hazily, Beth thought they could easily remain thus, all afternoon, all evening, and all night, just moving and touching and making soft, pleasure filled sounds against one another in some tortuous, dream-like state.

Even as Daryl's touch traveled across her skin, even as he explored new-found trails, she felt one hand come to rest upon the back of her head, his thumb pressing into the base of her neck. Before she could even register her own soft sigh at that familiar, welcome warmth, he leaned forward. Looming over her once more, he kissed her in his turn. His nails dug sharp as talons into her scalp, and his tongue flicked, hot and firm, against her neck and her ear.

There, beneath his hungry mouth, held fast against his hard form, she began to whimper softly.

Whether it was simply the unfolding of some fate, or the urging of yet another sort of power that moved them now, Beth could not have said. But, just as their hands had once met and clasped upon a dock at sunset, just as their fingers had intertwined, like chain-links, their closeness keeping out the darkness as they'd sat beside a dying fire, she felt the same sense of inevitability wash over her in that moment.

And then if she was pushing him or if he was pulling her, she could no longer tell. All Beth knew was that with the lightest of touches of the tips of her fingers against his chest, with the faintest of groans, Daryl was falling back upon the bed and she with him.

…

Though she had been practically sitting astride him, as they fell to the mattress she moved at the last moment, accustomed as she was to rolling to the ground with the man.

She'd shifted herself slightly to the side so that she landed halfway atop his chest, halfway on the bed. She could not help but recall all the times they had lain like this out there in the wilderness. Those times when they'd tumbled to the forest floor at the end of one of their games. Only now, they lay not upon the hard earth, but upon a soft bed. Only now, Beth was nearly naked, and Daryl was still clothed, and she was all-too aware of her bared breasts on his chest, pressed as they were against the leather of his vest.

There at Daryl's side, Beth lay watching him, just as she had so many times before when she'd been breathless from sprinting through the trees ahead of his quick stride. And as she observed him, she now recognized the expression in her companion's eyes for what it was: a mirror of her own soul-deep, burning desire.

If she was short of breath now, it was not from running swift as deer through the forest.

She remained there, resting against him for a time, just rising and falling along with his chest, and there was a moment when she was unsure how to proceed.

Pointedly, Daryl had not resumed touching her, but had moved his arm behind his head. His boots still remained firmly planted the floor. He was looking up at her now through hooded eyes, at once dark and yearning, and yet softened somehow by this new position. Beth lifted her head slightly and gazed down upon him once more. The way he was lying, stretched out and exposed before her, brought back a sudden memory of one of the more submissive of Otis' hunting hounds, rolling onto its back, begging for a belly rub.

And indeed, as she glanced over his still-clothed form, Beth couldn't help but notice how the bottom flap of his shirt had rucked up, and in doing so had exposed the skin of his stomach. She couldn't help but notice the trail of dark hair tinged with grey peeking out just above his belt. Once more she experienced an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch him there, just lightly, so lightly. That was all she wanted. Just like she'd wanted to last night, as he'd lain in the coffin, in some strange half-sleep, some moment suspended between life and death.

Perhaps it was this strangely moving sight of him, so seemingly defenseless beneath her, but Beth found that she could no longer resist. It was only fair—he'd already looked and touched and tasted his fill, after all. _My turn_ , she thought. Still holding his gaze in her own, she let her fingers dance, light and quick, down to that exposed flesh and let them linger there, just for a moment. And another moment—for she could not help but enjoy the contrast of his soft skin with the coarse, wiry hair that grew there.

At times such as these, Beth could scarcely breathe with the feeling of it—that sensation that came over whenever she thought about just how much of a man Daryl Dixon really was.

Beneath even this light touch of her hand upon his stomach, that man trembled violently. She felt him shift beneath her, and then a second later his fingers closed around her wrist, gripping her tightly.

Her own reaction was swift—she didn't give him the chance to wrench her hand away. Not yet. Rather, she leaned over him, and his eyes were still hooded, dark. Half-closed, as though he were under a spell, as though he were a sleeping beauty she'd just stumbled upon in the forest. Or more likely, she thought with a little grin, a sleeping beast, and she the one come to rouse him from an age-long slumber.

Leaning over him, her bared nipples just barely grazing his leather-clad chest, Beth kissed the corner of his mouth. Perhaps, in this, he _had_ needed rousing. For like some fey, enchanted being, his eyes fluttered open at the touch of her lips. She heard his breath catch in his throat, and then, all seemed to have been forgotten—he brought his hands up to cradle the sides of her face. In this, he was firm but gentle. Then, he raised himself on his elbows and began to kiss her full on the mouth. Her lips parted readily in eager welcome for his tongue, and she felt a jolt of shock at her own response. That, even in just this short time apart, she'd already come to miss this.

Soon enough, their movements grew hungry and urgent once more, and Beth might've been whimpering into his mouth, and Daryl might've been groaning deep in his throat, but she could no longer tell. Because, in that moment he lifted them both so they were sitting upright again. Only now, he leaned into her. His hands closed, warm and firm, around her slight shoulders, his strength all that kept her from falling backward onto the bed once more. In this she submitted to him, and let him move her as he willed.

Of her pliancy he took no advantage; his touch, while strong, remained restrained. His kisses, far less so. Indeed, the meeting of their lips soon reached a teeth-clattering, stubble-scratching intensity. Beth tried to keep up, tried to match his every movement, but after a moment she faltered, and had to pull away, breathless and panting.

Daryl was breathing hard too, and watching her intently. Her heart fluttered to see how swiftly his expression had changed. For his eyes had grown dark and dangerous. Dangerous, in the way all wild things are dangerous. Unpredictable. _Like a storm,_ she thought with a shiver.

But she was not afraid.

And so, before the pause could stretch too long, before a cruel north wind could come howling in and quench the raging fire they had started, Beth moved in to kiss him once more. She gripped his broad shoulders tightly to steady herself, the leather cool and oddly soothing beneath her fingers. _I can take this_ , she thought fiercely. Holding onto him thus, she began planting her lips all along his face, cheekbones, until she reached his neck. Now, she let her tongue flick across his ear, just a quick, little circle.

This elicited another strange, half-groan from the man. Still practically bent over her, Daryl now gathered her close to his chest, moving his hands up and down and all over her body. In her turn, Beth could not help but make some kind of strangled noise into his ear, and then his lips were against her hair. Soon he was kissing her face, too, and then her forehead, her cheekbones, her nose, and each corner of her mouth, until his lips met hers again. And oh, they were hungry, so hungry, like two starving people in a wasteland, even though they'd been sharing a redneck brunch all morning.

And then Daryl was laying her down once more, just as he did at night out there in the forest beside their fires. Only now, he was above her instead of beside her and— _oh, Lord in Heaven_ —she felt the full length of his hard body against her, the weight of his muscled frame atop her considerably smaller form. Even though he was still dressed, Beth felt the heat of the fire that had been slowly building between them for so long—felt it now, burning through her entire body. In that moment, it seemed to her that if she'd have looked down, she would have seen the last remnants of their clothing burned away, the very flesh melting from their bones

Perhaps it was a futile move given his fully-clothed state, but Beth could not stop herself—she wrapped her legs around him, almost out of instinct. Daryl was heavy against her slight hips but she spread her legs wider to accommodate his weight with her lower body. As she did, she couldn't help but notice the hilt of his hunting knife at his belt, for it was digging, cold and hard, into her thigh. But after a moment, such fleeting discomfort was forgotten. Daryl had shifted to hold himself slightly above her, resting his elbows upon the mattress on either side of her head. His hands moved to stroke the sides of her face, callused fingertips brushing against her faintly for a few, agonizing moments. Then, he swooped down upon her mouth, and began to kiss her, hard and slow, and deep.

Trapped as she was beneath him, she responded in kind, and they each moved their tongues against the other, exploring, inviting. _Come inside, come inside, devour me, devour me,_ their mouths screamed silently.

Beth felt it then—the loss of control in them both at the same moment. Daryl's hips bucked against hers, and she arched herself into him with a quiet moan. And, just as she couldn't help but feel the hilt of his knife digging into her, she now couldn't help but notice how hard he was through his jeans. The sensation sent an undeniable thrill coursing through her.

He'd been hard last night, too, but she'd done her best to ignore it then. There was no ignoring it now. It was still late afternoon, not the dead of night, and they were on a bed inside a house, not outside under the stars. They were as safe as they'd ever been, not vulnerable and exposed as they were out there.

And Daryl Dixon was no young boy to be pushed aside, but a man grown. Beth knew she was young, she knew it all-too well. But she was a woman. Had she not stood beside him out there, all these months? Had she not run at his side, and, at times, even outpaced him? Had she not tracked and hunted alongside him—him, the very best of hunters?

Oh, she could handle this man. And she could handle _this_.

What kind of…experience Daryl had in this, exactly, or what he might expect of her, she did not know. She'd never presumed she needed to know such things before and she wasn't sure she wanted to, now. Shaking her head to herself, she put such concerns away, shook them right of her mind.

All she knew was that it was time.

Looking him straight in the eye, Beth reached down, feeling for the top of his jeans. Before he cottoned-on to her intent, her quick fingers had already undone the buckle of his belt. She dipped her hand down, below his waistband, and still further to the thin fabric of his boxers. And...there. _Oh god._ She thought she might've whimpered aloud, to feel just how hard he was.

As her fingers connected with him though his underwear, Daryl made some kind of strange half-moan, half gasp into her ear. Encouraged by the sound, Beth couldn't help it—she splayed her fingers across his rock-hardness, moving slowly along his length, her heart thumping wildly as she did. Finally, she came to the place where wetness had seeped through the thin fabric, and she felt an answering surge between her own spread thighs. Her breath quickened, and she did not care in that moment if he was clothed or not, all she knew was that she wanted him inside her. With her fingers gently but firmly probing the front opening of his boxers, she moved to free him.

That was when she felt it, the sudden, almost eerie quiet. Her companion had gone utterly still above her. Like he was holding his breath. _The calm before the storm_ , she realized, trembling.

For there it was—the feral glint, the old menace in his eye. She saw it as he shifted above her. With a single, swift movement, with something like a growl deep in his throat, he wrenched her hand and arm away from where she'd so nearly grasped him, and pinned her against the bed. The force of it made yelp in surprise, made her bounce against the mattress beneath him.

Held thus beneath him, with her wrist firmly in his grasp, Beth gazed unflinching into his eyes, like she would if this were just one of their games out there in the forest.

But of course, this was no game. Beneath him, she took a deep breath and watched as the wild gleam turned once more to dark, smoking lust. Yet still she did not falter or turn her face away.

For Beth Greene had long ago ceased to be afraid of any fire.

If she was concerned at all, it was not for herself, but for _him_. What was it, she wondered, that made him flinch from her touch one moment, and yet hold her down, hard and fast and strong, the next? As though he wanted nothing more than to take her, right there, right now. As though he wanted to fuck her. Fuck her until she screamed. Fuck her until he'd claimed her forever as his own.

For he wanted her as a man wants a woman. That much was plain—she'd felt his arousal, stiff with surging blood. Alive. Her touch, her presence had done that. She'd felt the evidence of it only moments ago.

Yet there he remained above her, his grip still tight and strong around her wrist, his breath heavy and slow and deep—like he was fighting to regain control. Watching him like this, she recalled his strange words from earlier, his almost fevered utterance. " _Couldn't live with myself…_ " she'd heard him say.

Before, it had sounded like the mutterings of a madman, and maybe it was. But if Daryl was crazy then so was she, for she understood him perfectly now.

Just as she was afraid of leaving him alone on this earth far too soon, Daryl Dixon was terrified of hurting her.

If it had not been such a charged, serious moment, Beth might have laughed. For even at his worst, even that long ago day at the shack when he'd been lit, when he'd dragged her outside to shoot that walker, Daryl had never actually _hurt_ her. Even if he had, perhaps…maybe…accidentally squeezed her wrist a little too hard, she'd taken it. Hell, she hadn't even flinched.

Even then, she'd been stronger than she'd looked.

And that was before. Before they'd burned it down. Since then, well…Daryl had done nothing but care for her. He'd saved her life countless times out there. How could she ever forget his patient teachings, how he'd taught her to hunt and track and provide for herself in those woods? How could she forget how he'd helped her learn how to protect herself out there, against far more than just walkers? And more recently, how could she forget how incredibly, unbelievably attentive he'd been to her, in all his words and actions, ever since she'd so foolishly hurt her ankle?

No, this man, for all his slanting eyes and dark, menacing gaze, could never—would never—hurt her.

 _Oh, my dear, sweet Mr. Dixon._ She wanted to hug the ridiculous, darling man close to her, wanted to kiss all his unnecessary doubts and fears away. But still he held her by her wrist, tightly, and though she did not fear him, she recognized that she was almost entirely at the mercy of his considerable physical power.

And yet even by this, Beth was not fazed. If anything, she was emboldened. She knew what she must do. To calm his fears, to quiet the storm of conflicting thoughts that she could see even now raging in his mind.

With her free hand, she lifted her fingers to his face, brushing aside a stray lock of his hair, just gently. Daryl inhaled sharply. He leaned slightly into her touch, as though the fight was already fading from him, as though her strength was all that was holding him up. Like that day at the moonshiner's shack, when he'd wept and wept, and she'd held him, and tried to take the pain from him, right into her own beating heart.

There beneath him, Beth began to hum. Not to sing, but just to hum, that soft, familiar tune that spoke of a summer of contentment. Peace. Safety. Longing. Home. She let the wordless music vibrate from her heart, through her throat, through her whole body. She imagined it flowing through her very fingertips, penetrating skin and bone, flesh and blood, mind and soul. Pictured it flowing into him, from her. Beneath that beast-turned-man, she transformed herself into a meadow of soft, inviting grasses, swaying in the breeze under a golden sun. With her voice she revealed her secrets to him, the secrets of the dew-drenched earth on a summer morning. _Come_ , she told him. _Come lay in my lawn, and be good._

And as a dark cloud dissolves in the light of the sun, so did the storm now pass from his eyes. Daryl released her wrist from his iron grip and collapsed for a moment upon her, as though he'd lost some furious battle. He rolled his weight onto his elbow and shifted on the mattress, moving slightly to the side so as not to crush her beneath him. And then, with a shuddering sigh, he buried his face into her neck.

Like some fallen warrior, he lay there for a long moment, barely moving, just…breathing her in. After a time, Beth lifted her hand to him, resting it lightly upon his still-clothed shoulder, another wordless reassurance.

Though his face was nestled against her neck, his lips just skimming the sensitive place below her ear, Daryl held himself slightly above her. With his broad shoulders pressed against her bare chest, Beth felt small and fragile, and yet, still she felt the music singing in her veins, humming with a strange power. She remained wholly conscious of her own breathing, the rise and fall of her slightness beneath his hard form.

Entranced, she watched as Daryl's hand moved lightly, so lightly, across her exposed upper body. She could not hold back the sigh that escaped her as his leather and denim-clad chest drifted against her own uncovered skin. As his lips hovered there, against her throat, she closed her eyes for a single breath. When her lids fluttered open once more, she could sense the warmth of his palms, and the callused roughness of his fingers as they traveled from the swell of her breast to her shoulder and over her collarbone. Beth gasped and shivered anew at this gentle, purposeful touch.

Daryl continued marking that slow, careful trail along the curve of her neck, until his hand came to rest against the side of her face, his thumb warm against her cheek. "Greene," he rasped, his voice breaking upon her, harsh as steel upon stone, "you don't know what you do, girl."

She could find neither the thought nor the words to reply. So, she just breathed there beneath the hard length of his body, beneath the warmth of his hand, and beneath the slow, gentle kisses he left there where her blood surged, in the hollow of her throat.

When he spoke again, he sounded almost choked. " _Jesus, Beth_ ," he said, his lips hot against her neck, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. "You make a man forget."

"Forget what?" she breathed.

"What he ain't." Daryl's voice was barely a whisper, a ghost of breath against her ear. "What he might'a been."

His words, spoken so softly, so plainly, nearly made her heart turn over. For these were the words of a man still haunted by the shadows of his own past.

"Shhh," she hushed him, her fingers smoothing the strands of his hair from his face. "None of that now." Not for the first time that day, Beth blinked away tears. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to hold him there against her forever. "Maybe," she offered, resting her hand upon his shoulder, "some things…some 'maybe's'… _need_ forgettin'." When her companion did not respond, she pressed on. "We put it away, remember?" she whispered into his ear. "You told me I had to keep remindin' you sometimes." She smiled. "So I am."

At her words, and beneath her hand, she felt him tremble. He now paused in his gentle tracings of her skin. A long moment passed, and then another, and he remained silent, save for his slow breathing.

Beth likewise stilled beneath him and did not press him further. Perhaps he was still pondering what she'd said.

Finally, she felt him take a deep, shuddering breath. He lifted his head from where he'd been resting against her neck and now gazed down upon her. Beth thought she might have caught a glimmer of…were those tears in his eyes? But she saw also the hint of something else, for the corner of his mouth had turned up in a rueful quirk. "How d'you know so damn much, Greene?" Daryl asked finally, shaking his head.

Beth wasn't sure exactly how to respond to such a…sweeping question, so she just shrugged up at him with another smile. Daryl grunted at that, and Beth was suddenly reminded of summer days in the hot, sweltering woods. Days spent in their suck-ass camp, when he'd been short-tempered and so very, very grumpy.

But he was not grumpy now, just…bemused. "Man can't hardly even _think_ …with you…with us…" he gestured to their intimate position, and the ghost of a smile tugged once more at the corner of his mouth. "But you…you don't even gotta know the question, and you already got all the answers."

"I do _not_ ," she protested, but she could feel herself breaking into a grin. "Not _all_ of 'em."

He just looked down at her, brushing her cheek with his thumb for a moment. "You _do_." Despite his playful tone, his eyes were serious. "Always have," he added softly.

Once more, Beth hardly knew how to reply, but she took a deep breath. "All I _know_ , Mr. Dixon," she said, still smiling up at him, "is that there's only this. Only us." She moved her hand to his chest, to cover his heart. She could feel that war-drum pounding, pounding, even beneath his leather vest. "Only…now."

Something in Daryl's expression changed then. Blue eyes darkened—but this was no return of the internal storm. This was different. Intense, but…focused. Concentrated. "Only now, huh?" His voice was low and soft and barely above a whisper, and yet he spoke as a man with intent.

Beth sensed the shift in him, and could feel much of the worry and doubt dissipating. That previous tension replaced now by a calm confidence, the likes of which she'd only witnessed in him out in the forest, when he'd been tracking some elusive, wild creature. That same quiet stillness had come over him now, and the husky tone of his voice had set her heart aflutter once more—far more than any shout or growl.

And so, she could only nod and swallow in reply, and hold his gaze.

Daryl nodded in his turn, just the slightest inclination of his head.

Even if she had been able to find the words, she could not have spoken then, for he leaned down upon her, his hand warm against her neck, and covered her mouth with his. The kiss that followed was long and deep, and tortuously slow. This time she felt it all the way through entire body, sending a jolt of warmth down from her belly to her toes.

When he finally pulled away, she barely had time to draw a gasping breath when he moved to her throat. He flicked his tongue against her skin and sucked gently. "Only now?" he murmured again, this time against her pulse.

" _Oh_ ," she sighed, aglow with his warmth. "Oh, yes."

Just as she was beginning to shiver from the feeling of his stubble rubbing hard and slow against her neck, just as she felt the barest hint of his teeth grazing her sensitive skin, he moved downward. He brushed his lips against the hollow place just below her collarbone, and then found his way to her exposed chest. "And now?" he asked, as he took her breast into his mouth. His palm covered the other, kneading it slowly as he did.

She could not reply, but could only breathe deeply and twine her fingers into his hair.

His lips closed around her flesh, and she felt the wet, probing heat of his tongue, followed by a slight, sharp tickling—the graze of teeth upon sensitive skin. Being tasted and squeezed and nibbled so thoroughly only made her dig her fingertips harder into his scalp, down into the very roots of his roots of his dark tangles. But again, after only a short time he tore himself away, and moved on.

She wondered, vaguely, if Daryl was teasing her, just as he'd done before, out in the woods with his quips and gentle taunts during their tracking sessions.

Only, this was nothing like before. Nothing at all.

Beth was already shuddering beneath the heat of his mouth as he moved lower and lower. Along her rib cage and against the flat of her stomach he left firm kisses, hot, burning trails all the way down her body. There was a moment when, with a brush of his lips he whispered into her skin, so softly she could scarcely hear him: _"How 'bout now?"_

Her breath caught in her throat as she struggled to form words, but he had already moved on.

By the time he reached her lower belly, she could feel the heat of his breath and the warmth of his seeking mouth—that heat that was spreading right through her. And then he was there, hovering just above the hem of her panties.

Now, she was shaking in earnest.

Pausing there between her trembling thighs, Daryl looked up at her. This time he did not speak, but waited, his eyes dark and pleading. Once more Beth was reminded of Otis' hunting hounds waiting expectantly, hungrily, but so very patiently for their reward. Waiting for their master's command.

She met those eyes, and found her voice. " _Now_ ," she breathed.

Kneeling there between her legs, Daryl moved slowly, purposefully to where she was still covered by her undergarments. Perhaps her body anticipated him, for she felt fresh wetness even now soaking through the thin fabric. And there, lowering his face to her, he began to mouth her, gently. He lingered there for a moment, seemingly reluctant to tear himself away from this particular spot. Rather, he continued nuzzling into her with this nose, like a dog sniffing its way.

He'd been holding her firmly by the waist, but now he moved his hands down, over her hips, to grip her tightly by her backside. With a single movement that made her breath hitch, he lifted her up off the bed and buried his face into her. The sensation of his mouth through the damp fabric made her gasp and throw back her head, and clamp her legs around him. Tangled strands of his hair brushed teasingly against her inner thighs, and the leather of his vest clung desperately to her skin.

That was when she felt another, as-yet unfamiliar sensation. At first it was light, so light as to tickle, and then slightly harder, making her gasp again. For Daryl now grazed her with bared teeth, and for a fleeting moment Beth thought he would rip into her panties, and tear off this last barrier to her flesh.

But then, with one hand still on her bottom, he lifted her higher and pulled her closer to him, dragging her slightly against the bedspread. She found herself clutching at the blanket beneath her—not to resist him, but simply because she needed to hold on to _something_.

Daryl's own hold on her legs was strong. Quickly, he pulled off each of her long, knitted socks. His lips quirked, just slightly as he peeled them away. He tossed them, almost furiously, to the floor. For a moment, he appeared as he had that day he'd smashed a bottle of Peach Schnapps and vowed instead to find her a _real_ first drink. Like some knight-errant, embarking on quest in her name. Offering himself as the man for the job, the one who could seek out her heart's desire—no matter that it was the end of the goddamn world.

Perhaps Daryl Dixon had always been such. To the folk at the prison. To her family. Protector. Provider. The one who'd go on runs, the one who'd brave the bowels of hell to find anything and everything people needed.

But it was not until the day of the moonshine that he'd become such to _her_.

Beth mused on such strange twists of fate. For, somewhere along the way, the man himself had become everything she wanted. Everything she needed.

Everything she desired.

Looking into the face of that man now, a face upon which she saw naught but equally-unmasked desire, it was easy to believe that fate had dealt him a similarly unexpected hand.

She wondered what it must feel like for him, to see the one he'd protected for so long, lying exposed and vulnerable beneath him.

Ready, and so very willing.

Beth realized she was shivering violently. Without those long socks she'd grown so accustomed to wearing, the cold air of the room hit her calves and raised fresh goosebumps. But it was not the cold making her shake and tremble before him. It was a man's hands, warm and firm upon her thighs. It was that look in his eyes again, like he wanted to take her right then and there. She wanted to scream at him to _go ahead…do it_. He could've easily torn her panties off ages ago. Any other man would've taken her by now.

But Daryl Dixon was, most assuredly, not any other man. Once again, he seemed to be waiting. Waiting for her command.

" _Daryl_ ," she whined. It was all she could manage. "Daryl, _please_."

He made no reply, only the faintest of feral grunts. And then, with a yank and a firm tug, he peeled away that final layer. He pulled her underwear right up over her knees and ankles. Once removed, he flung them to the floor with the same vehemence as her stockings. Then, he rested her legs against his shoulders. Those broad, familiar shoulders. Beth barely had time to notice the cool air hitting her, or to register the almost pained noise he made in his throat at the sight of her, like a man who knows his doom is at hand.

For then, an instant later she felt his breath, gusting warmly against her upper thigh, and then, _oh God_ , it was there, upon her bare and aching place. He moved in as though to feast upon a fresh kill, as though intending to devour that newly-exposed flesh.

And devour her he did, for his mouth was hot and searching as always. As he nosed his way in, his stubble scraped roughly against her sensitive opening, catching on her wild curls. Then, he began to lathe her with his tongue, and she could not help but jerk her hips against him and whimper.

As she writhed against him, he still moved slowly, but far less gently now. Already, he began to seek deeper and deeper pathways. If she'd had the breath left she would have laughed, for he was kissing her there in her most intimate place in much the same manner he'd kissed her mouth—relentlessly, and with growing ferocity, with low growls deep in this throat.

Earlier, Beth had thought he was teasing her when he'd left that slow, agonizing trail down the length of her body—but now she had to wonder if he was, in fact, torturing himself.

All the same, she could not seem to stop her own trembling. There, against his mouth, in his hands, she writhed, half in pleasure, half in agony, matching each of his groans with tormented sounds of her own. Once more she could not help it—her hands found his hair. With her fingers threaded through his dark tangles, she pressed him further into her, encouraging him as best as she could.

That's when she felt it again—his teeth, sinking into the meat of her thigh. He lingered there for a few, provocative moments, before returning to where she was wet, so wet for him. And then she felt his beard, his breath, and oh…the sharpness of his canines against her. And then she was standing once more beneath a tree on a late summer's day, and a man was flashing her a wicked grin as he stole the juiciest bite of her apple.

But the memory and all its vivid images fled as she was wrenched back the present by that man's hot, flicking tongue. Daryl groaned against her and made what could only be described as a pleased sound, like a humming in the back of his throat. The vibration sent her shivering and squirming there against his mouth, gripping him by the roots of his hair. She moaned softly, and it took all her strength in that moment not to yank his face away from her, and beg him to enter her _now_.

But in the end, she did not have to pull him away. As she dug her nails into the top of his head, she must have squeaked, or perhaps even spoken aloud, for he now paused. He tore his mouth from her and released his hold on her, and gently lowered her back onto the mattress.

Beth watched with increasingly tangled nerves as, still kneeling between her spread thighs, Daryl carefully removed his leather vest. Then he shrugged himself out of his denim jacket—the jacket she'd found for him back at the cabin at the lake. Still holding her gaze, he threw his garments, one by one, to the floor. She could not help but draw a sharp breath at the sight of his powerful arms, exposed once more. In these last, colder weeks she had missed being able to observe—and admire—his well-muscled form.

Daryl had not yet removed his old faded black shirt, she saw. Instead, he now reached behind himself to pull off his boots. They clunked noisily to the floorboards. A moment later he kicked off his jeans, already unbuckled by her own hands. He knelt now before her in only his sleeveless shirt and green boxers.

Beth wondered at the sight of him, so purposefully, so intentionally unclad. Her heartbeat quickened; she thought she knew what he intended. _He wouldn't …not unless he was…not unless we're really gonna…oh god…_

For now he stretched himself out above her, keeping himself slightly to the side of her again, careful, always careful. She felt his hardness straining beneath the fabric of his underwear, there along the side of her thigh. But then his lips were on hers once more and she had no room for further thoughts or nerves—for in that moment all she could taste was… _herself_ upon his mouth, on his tongue, and amongst his stubble, and she groaned against him.

After only a moment, Daryl wrenched himself away, panting slightly. Gently, he laid his palm against the top of her head, his hand calm and soothing against her hair. Beth felt his other hand run smoothly down along the curves of her body once more, seeking the warm, welcoming place between her thighs. Seeking the place his mouth had just been.

With both of his hands on her thus, Beth realized that he, too, was trembling.

When he found the place he sought, he paused. If she'd thought the taste of herself upon him overwhelming, the feeling of his callused fingertips against her nearly sent her over the edge. For he did more than just gently trace her opening—he dipped his finger inside, slowly, tentatively, like he knew what to do but was not yet sure of her response. "Well, Greene?" he asked darkly, "What about _now_?"

Beth gasped, and then it was her turn. Her turn to look up at him with what she was certain was a wild gleam in her eye. Her turn to grasp him by the wrist—not to wrench him away, but to press him further, deeper inside.

There was a moment when her body almost betrayed her, and briefly resisted. She hadn't meant to tense up, but…it had been so long. And this, so much to process, so much to contain, all at once. But she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and held onto his wrist, and guided him in.

When she opened her eyes once more, she was looking up into her companion's face. His eyes had widened, and she could not help but notice the way his lips parted, the way his mouth hung open slightly, the way his Adam's apple moved as he swallowed hard at the feeling of her. As she rolled her hips against his inserted finger, she felt another rush of wetness between her thighs, and against his hand.

" _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Greene," Daryl choked out.

Beth could only smile at him, blushing faintly. She didn't know why his notice of her arousal should embarrass her in the slightest. Not in the least because _he_ was the one responsible for it.

Though she knew her cheeks were surely flushed red, Daryl seemed unfazed. If anything, he seemed wholly entranced with the feeling of her in his hands—the feeling of her experiencing pleasure _at_ his hands. He seemed altogether awed by her…enthusiastic response to him.

With his other hand he continued smoothing her hair, caressing the top of her head. He now rested his forehead against hers, breathing deeply, like this was almost too much for him, like was about to collapse with the feeling of it.

They remained thus for some time—she, making small sounds of pleasure, he, just breathing there against her.

…

Despite the chill air in that attic room, in the heat of their closeness Beth no longer felt it so badly. Not with a man's hands, so warm, not with his body, so firm, against her.

That man remained yet partially clothed, and sweat now beaded upon his forehead. His breath, likewise, had grown hot and heavy in her ear.

As Beth continued pressing her fingers against his, as she continued moving his hand against her, a gentle but powerful wave of sensation coursed through her, and there came a point when she could take it no longer. She squeaked something unintelligible, and arched herself into his hand.

At her strangled sound, at her grip tightening around his wrist, Daryl cleared his throat. "You alright?" he asked, his hand still between her thighs.

She looked up at him desperately, unsure how to answer. For despite her mounting pleasure, Beth knew this was not…enough. Not now. Maybe not ever. She needed more…she needed _him_. Maybe she'd always needed him—needed to _be_ with him—in this way. Lord knew, as it was she could hardly stand being without him inside her much longer.

It was not merely her own release she sought. Rather, it was yet more closeness she craved. _I want you,_ she ached to tell him. _I need you. I need to feel your body against mine. Your skin against my skin. Your heart beatin' like a big ol' drum against my own. I want to feel you, all of you._

But all she could manage in that moment was a breathless, "I…I need…"

"Hey," Daryl murmured softly into her hair. "What is it?"

But she faltered. She could not explain this—she could only attempt to show him. She released his wrist, leaving his hand there against her.

And then, she began to pull at what remained of his clothing.

As she did, she felt his lips tremble against her forehead, and Beth wondered if he were about make some protest. But she had already undone half the buttons on his shirt, and was now in the midst of tugging at his boxers. From this task, she would no longer be so easily dissuaded. After all, this wasn't, well…it wasn't exactly fair. Had he not just enjoyed her… _all_ of her? The man's reticence be damned. _I'm gonna enjoy you too, Mr. Dixon,_ she thought. _Just you wait and see._

Boldly, she now pulled at the threadbare elastic band of his underwear, harder and more urgently than before. And, to her great surprise, Daryl let her. He even shifted himself beside her to assist her efforts, and then let her pull those old faded green boxers down, right down, to expose the full length of him.

After so long wanting, so long wondering…she could not tear her eyes away. _Oh, lord…_

Lying there next to him, for a moment she was tempted, so very tempted, to slide herself down against the bed. She could've had her mouth around him before he could even blink. She could already imagine how it he would taste, how he would feel in her mouth, against her teeth, and her tongue…

But she shook her head. _Later_ , she told herself. There'd be time enough for that later. There had to be. But even if… even if this proved all the time that was left to them, Beth knew that even in that case, she could postpone this no longer.

And, it seemed, neither could he.

For the very next moment, the very next breath, Daryl moved above her, his arms on either side of her shoulders, his hips coming to rest once more between her thighs. And then he was moving against her, dragging his hardness against her stomach and then…further down. She gasped, to feel him slide so boldly across her like that. There was nothing else to do but to wrap her legs around him and move her hips against him in eager response.

And then he was nuzzling into her once more, and his mouth was on her, his tongue finding those sensitive spots against her throat. Her hands moved instinctively, out of habit, to hold on, to grip him by his firm backside, and push him against her. To the insistence of her touches he now acquiesced, and for that moment, Beth let herself enjoy this unguarded access to his body.

Some agonizing moments passed in which he was pressed against her, sliding hot and heavy along her bare stomach. Beth drew a deep breath, and tried to steady her mind, calm her own trembling beneath him. _Easy now,_ she reminded herself. _Easy._ Despite her own deep, urgent need, she had no wish to rush him, but now that she could feel him above her, she could not help but put her hands on him. After a moment, her fingers crept of their own accord under the hem of his shirt. Gently, she began to stroke his sides.

Beneath her hands, his skin was warm and inviting, and now that she had touched him all restraint fled. She only wanted…more. Desperately, she longed to feel his bare stomach again. She longed to feel the full length of his body, unencumbered by garment or weapon, against her own burning skin.

But as her hands moved across the warm expanse of his muscled form to glide over his back, Daryl suddenly froze above her. For a confused moment, Beth could not understand, and wondered what she'd done wrong.

But then she remembered.

She remembered all the times in the woods when she'd glimpsed him through the trees, when they'd taken turns washing in swift-flowing streams. She remembered the night by the dark lake when she'd seen him changing, his skin aglow from the flickering light of the fireplace. She could see them now in her memory—the lines, the traces, the marks, angry and red, so red, even now, even after all this time…

Even now, beneath her hands, she could feel them—the raised welts of his old scars. With a pang of guilt, Beth wondered if she had been too bold in this, too insistent. She had not meant to claw at him, to tear away his carefully-placed shields like some mindless creature concerned only with satisfying her own needs. For truly…above all, she desired to hold him. To hold all of him. To hold him against her and take whatever pain he had left into her own being. To take _him_ inside her, let him hide there forever if he wished.

But then she remembered what she'd thought just a little while ago, when the darkness had risen up once more to try to claim her. The shade of Daryl's own darkness lay beneath her hands even now. And yet, she wished more than anything that this particular past remain firmly _in_ the past. Remain buried beneath ash, blowing away like dust in the wind. For this fire that burned now between them was all that was true. All that was real. This was _here_ , this was _now_. _We're still here. That's all that matters._

And so, Beth waited. She waited calmly and patiently beneath Daryl's still form for a few, tense breaths. And then, when she sensed in her heart that the danger for her beloved companion had passed, she carefully resumed touching him. Just light, slow circles with the tips of her fingers, and then slightly firmer, massaging the hard muscles of his back. Beneath her gentle touch, Daryl heaved a sigh, and it was as though he'd been holding his breath for a hundred years. As though, only now could he finally, finally exhale.

And then, as if nothing—or perhaps everything—had happened, Daryl resumed his own movements above her. He, too, was careful now. His mouth, still so hungry, was nonetheless slow and gentle once more. His hips still moved against her, but now she could tell that he was holding back. Not out of reluctance to be close to her, but out of a renewed tenderness and care to match her own.

Despite this, she still sensed the power of his man, the strength of him, coiled tightly inside him. Or pulled taught, like a bowstring. Beth sensed that Daryl only held back now so that he did not release that strength too soon—so that they might draw out this exquisite moment as long as humanly possible.

There had perhaps been a time when they'd simply been two souls, thrust together by the end of what had once been the world. And then forced to embark upon an unspeakably difficult journey by the hand of a dark and twisting fate. But now…now, they were bound by a force far greater. Now, Beth sensed another pathway unfolding itself before them. Equally dark, perhaps, and still twisted, but a pathway all the same.

 _Not the end,_ she thought. _The beginning._

Perhaps, the two were one and the same.

…

Lying together upon that narrow bed, their movements had slowed to an almost torturous pace. And so, there was a sense of the momentous in what next came to pass.

Beth knew she was, for all intents and purposes, trapped beneath her companion, completely and utterly in his power. And yet, even now, he looked down upon her as a man enthralled, a man once more under a spell—a man under an enchantment from which he hoped never to wake.

She gazed up at him, into those eyes, so bright, so blue, like a crisp, clear sky, holding all the promise of summers to come. Beneath that sky, Beth felt a peacefulness waft over them both. For in that moment, a sense of _possibility_ radiated all around her. That maybe, if they loved hard enough, it might _be_ enough.

That maybe, after all, they might live to see another summer.

With renewed calm, she now reached up to him, briefly stroking his face. And then she moved to finish unbuttoning that faded old shirt, that shirt that might've once been black. That shirt he'd worn the night he'd come to her prison cell, and later, as the fences of their home had fallen around them. The shirt he'd worn in a shack full of shadows that they'd burned to the ground. The shirt he'd worn through countless other nights beside her, beside countless fires, under skies full of countless stars.

Finally, she push the last, stubborn button through its hole, and the shirt flapped open. His body, now revealed to her sight.

Above her, Daryl remained calm, quiet. No longer tense, just… still. He let her run her hands all the way up the length of his torso, from the coarse hair at the root of him, up the trail that grew along his belly, all the way to the sparser hairs on his chest.

As she did, she felt beneath her fingers the gashes, the scars that crisscrossed his flesh, like brands upon his skin. No wonder the man wore the wings of an angel upon his back. In that moment, Beth could have wept, to know that he needed so tangible a guard to keep this particular darkness at bay.

She was filled then with a fierce protectiveness. In that moment, Beth would have, readily and without hesitation, slain any demon that dared emerge from dark corners of this man's past. Any who dared challenge her own claim upon him.

With all the light and power she possessed, she now covered those marks, those remnants of the past, with her own small hands. In this, she would not be swayed, but continued her long-sought quest. Continued touching him, feeling him. This was all she'd wanted, all she'd longed for. She moved her fingers in a slow dance up his chest, just soaking up the warmth of his skin, and replenishing it with her own.

She reached the place where his heart thrummed a fast but steady beat, and she let her palm linger there, just a little bit longer.

Beneath her hand, the man trembled, his hold on himself wavering, just for a moment. " _Beth_ ," was all he said.

And this time, she saw there were indeed tears his in eyes. Shimmering, ready to fall.

"Shh," she whispered. Without further hesitation, she sat up, just enough that she could reach him where he held himself above her. And then she kissed him softly upon his mouth, and as she did, she carefully pulled the sleeveless shirt over each of his shoulders and over his arms.

That almost insurmountable task now completed, she flung the last remaining garment to the floor, to join all the rest.

Freed now from all but one another, they moved toward each other at the same moment—she, raising herself further toward him, he, lowering himself down to her.

His lips responded, moving first against her mouth, then her throat, and to her chest. His hands cradled her face with all the protectiveness and power he possessed. Beth's own hands were upon his back, his shoulders, moving up and down, and up again. With each passing breath Daryl moved against her, and she arched herself into him.

Beneath him, she reveled in it, that which she had long wished to feel—the full length of his hard body against her.

And, just as all now was revealed, all the beauty and ugliness and everything between, so did the last vestige of self-restraint, the last shackle of separation, fall away.

In that moment, Beth knew that any chance of drawing back was lost forever.

 _No exit_. The thought came to her suddenly, and made her strangely giddy. She wondered if there had ever even been such a time. Perhaps they had both been irrevocably lost long ago. Perhaps even that night Daryl had come to her cell. That night he'd come to her as the one _responsible_ , to tell her that Zach—her poor, sweet, cheerful, young Zach—had not returned from the supply run. That night he'd instead revealed the lonely and sorrowful man beneath the sweat and the smoke and the leather.

Or, perhaps long before then, the very day he'd ridden up on his motorcycle at the head of the caravan, kicking up a cloud of dust the whole way up the long dirt driveway to her daddy's farm. Perhaps the very minute she'd spied him from behind that pile of stones, the very second she'd watched him hop off that Charger, shoulder his crossbow, and come striding into her world.

Here and now, beneath the man who'd had such an auspicious role in the turning of that world, Beth felt as though something inevitable—unavoidable, even—was finally coming to pass.

And yet, she could not help but feel that this fire that raged between them had been lighted by their own hands—not by any fate, but by them and them alone.

She felt it, for the evidence was before her very eyes, beneath her very hands. It was there, in the shared heat of their naked bodies, in the baring of their souls. It was there in the way Daryl's lips moved, hot as embers, against her bare skin. There, in his pleading eyes, and in the tears that now shone therein. There, in her own radiant joy at the feeling of him close, so close to her. It was there in his reverent touches. There, in the way he handled her—as though, even were she not all that remained to him, she would still be the last woman to his last man.

As they moved thus against one another, the heat rising as a towering flame from their bodies, there was no longer any way to tell. No way to determine fate from free will, no discernible line between past and present and the great, burning sense of _now_.

…

* * *

 ****** IMPORTANT REMINDER ******

 **Please respect my wishes NOT to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you!** :)


	3. In furias ignem

…

 _In furias ignem_

or, 'rush into the flame'

In which a bridge is finally burned.

* * *

"New lovers are nervous and tender, but smash everything. For the heart is an organ of fire."  
– _The English Patient_

…

Beth Greene was no stranger to strange dreams.

In the last weeks and months since she and Daryl had found themselves alone and on the run, she'd had many. Out there in the dark wood as she'd slept beside him under the starlit sky. Most had been far from pleasant. Nightmares, really. Yet even the most surreal had _seemed_ real—at least, in the moment.

It certainly seemed real now—his lips, warm and searching against her skin, and her responding sighs. His rough hands, stroking and caressing her naked form, and the almost involuntary moans his touch elicited. His own hard, unclothed body pressing her into the mattress, and the soft, plaintive whimpers she could no longer hold back at being so thoroughly trapped beneath him.

All the same, if she were to have woken to find herself snug in her bed at the farmhouse, or alone in her dark prison cell, or even lying beside him upon the damp, leaf-strewn forest floor, she would not have been surprised.

In recent times, Beth had insisted, over and over, upon the beauty inherent in many things. Insisted to Daryl that such wonders remained, and could be glimpsed if they only looked hard enough. Roses in a world of dark, ugly thorns.

And yet, that which had just come to pass between herself and her only companion, and which was continuing to unfold between them at this very moment, seemed far too beautiful—and perhaps far too perilous—to exist in their current reality.

But there was no denying the shivers of pleasure and anticipation that coursed through her as Daryl moved his mouth against her with what could only be described as increasingly-fervent passion. It was certainly unlike any dream she'd ever had in all her life, before or after the world had turned. Surely, she'd never have been able to dream up such a scenario, in all its strange and specific detail.

For she could still taste it. On his beard, and on his lips as he kissed her, hard and firm, but still careful, so careful.

Herself, on his mouth.

There was no other way to describe it—she could _perceive_ herself on him. Her own taste, there on the man who'd tasted her so thoroughly only a little while ago.

That man now wrenched his lips from hers, pulling himself away from the deepening kiss, sighing as he looked down upon her beneath him. This breaking away was, for Beth, an agonizing sensation—for a part of her yet feared she would open her eyes to find an altogether uglier scene. But as she peered up into Daryl's face, she witnessed in his countenance the same awe and disbelief she felt now. His shadowed eyes were those of a man in the midst of an impossible dream from which he, too, still feared he might wake.

She knew then that, somehow, she had to reassure him that this was no dream. That, if anything, it was almost _too_ real, too tangible. His breath too hot against her to be imagined, his fingers too rough, too worn not to belong to real man, a man who used them every day to hunt, to kill.

To protect. To defend.

To love.

Those fingers now brushed almost delicately against her face as he traced her parted lips with callused thumb and forefinger. And as he did, he dipped his fingertip, just slightly, into her waiting mouth. As she closed her mouth around him, it felt like a snare, an entrapment. But for him, or for herself, she was no longer certain. In tasting the evidence of his being inside her only moments ago, she was all-too conscious of the depth of her desire to have him—all of him—within her, once and for all. Beth was already painfully aware of him between her thighs, but still not _between_ her thighs. Not yet. She shivered—his hard length, resting hot and heavy against her, was the least dreamlike of all.

As Daryl's broad chest pressed against her small breasts, she could feel his heart's rapid beating. She looked up at him through his dark, unruly hair which even now fell against her, softly tickling her face. As she did, she sucked the remnants of her arousal from the length of his finger slowly, watching him all the while.

His eyes widened briefly and then fluttered closed. As he had since this had begun, Daryl appeared to her in that moment her as one wounded, as though he were indeed ensnared in some kind of tortured bliss.

With her gaze fixed steadfastly upon him, Beth kept her own eyes wide open, aware. She had not stepped into this blind. And she was not now. She knew what this was. She knew, and she knew it could change everything. She knew, and she still wanted it—wanted _him_ —more than ever.

He moved his finger deeper into her open mouth, and she continued sucking, slowly. As she licked the last remnants of her own taste away, she made a soft sound in her throat, an appreciative little hum.

At the feeling of it, the vibration of her voice against him, Daryl and opened his eyes once more. With a deep sigh, he moved his hand from her mouth, and traced a wet trail down from her parted lips to the curve of her neck. Leaning into her, he covered her lips with his own. As he kissed her for perhaps the hundredth time that afternoon, Beth held him encircled within her arms. She moved her hands up and down his bare, muscled form, from his back, to his shoulders, up to his neck, and then down again. As she did, she felt him shiver, almost involuntarily, as though she were weaving some spell, leaving trails at once ice-cold and fire-hot upon his skin.

No, she could never have dreamed this up. She wouldn't have dared—and Beth had dared herself to do a great many things in recent times. But this… oh she had _thought_ of it, of course. But she had not dared to dream it might truly come to pass. Not even after last night, when they had slept closer than ever. Even then she'd not presumed that it would lead to this very moment. She'd not dared to believe they'd end up undressing one another, laying each other down with an almost unbearable blend of tenderness and urgency. Never dreamed that here at the end of the world, their naked bodies would now be pressed so closely against one another. That, lying together in a bed in a stranger's house in the middle of the afternoon, they'd be now only a heartbeat away from…

In the midst of their slow, careful movements, Daryl jerked his hips, thrusting himself against her. But rather than before, rather sliding all the way over her slick wetness, he paused at her opening. The sudden, insistent pressure, the feeling of him pushing into her folds so as to be almost inside her, made her flinch away and gasp into his mouth.

Immediately, Daryl wrenched his lips from hers once more and stilled above her. His hands were on either side of her face, stroking her gently. His eyes flickered over her, and there was something like concern in his gaze. "Beth?" His voice was soothing still, but with a dash of trepidation, like he was worried she'd changed her mind, but equally terrified she hadn't. "Beth, you know…you don't gotta—if you don't want—" he cut himself off, his brow furrowing in concern.

Beneath him, she couldn't help it—she let out a little giggle. And once she started, she couldn't stop—suddenly she was overcome with it. Above her, Daryl appeared even more unnerved. _He's so damn serious_ , she thought, still giggling. What did the man think she'd gone and gotten herself all good and naked for, if not this?

But Daryl wasn't laughing. Rather, he seemed to be holding his breath again. Waiting. He swallowed. "Maybe we should, uh…" he trailed off, taking a deep breath. "Beth, we don't gotta do this."

Beneath him, she bit her bottom lip, an attempt to stifle her eruption of mirth. She inhaled deeply, composing herself. "Shh, silly," she hushed, stroking his face, her voice a breathless whisper. "We already _are_."

As though to prove it, without looking away from his eyes—still shadowed with a mixture of hesitation and desire—she moved her hips beneath him. As she did, she wrapped her legs around him, spreading herself open, and slid against his bare stomach. "Mmm," she moaned at the sensation of his body hair brushing against her soft, sensitive opening.

Daryl closed his eyes and rested his head against her brow, groaning as if in defeated agony. " _Sweet Jesus_ , Greene," he gritted through his teeth. "You _tryin_ ' to kill me?"

"I'unno, Mr. Dixon," she giggled. "Didn't think it'd be so easy." Beneath him, she rolled her hips again, slowly, and very purposefully. As she did, she could not help but rub up against him once more. He was so damn hard that, as she moved against him, she nearly took him inside her for real this time.

At such deliberate provocation, Daryl's eyes snapped open. He peered closely at her at her through his curtain of hair, his breathing now labored. She felt one of his hands, large and warm, on the side of her face, the other he moved down, and his fingers closed tightly around the nape of her neck. Now he held her in fast in both his gaze and his grip. "Always knew you'd be the end of me, Greene." His voice was a growl against her ear, making her shiver and tremble in his hands. "But I ain't dead yet."

As though to prove it, he thrust his hips, just enough to push himself up against her entrance once more.

Any retort she might've spoken died right there on her lips. For he was close. So close. Throbbing, hard and insistent, against her. Even now pushing her open, just slightly. With just one small thrust, he could be inside her. The very fire she'd rushed so confidently toward blazed brighter than ever before her. _Step inside_ , it called out. _Come inside._ But Beth found she could only freeze, could only shiver before its incredible heat.

Her stomach fluttered wildly as a wave of nervousness crashed upon her. For a panicked moment, all she could think was that this was _Daryl Dixon_ , her father's friend, her family's guardian and long-time protector, and it was almost too much. But then, just as swiftly, the wave receded, and she remembered. This was _Daryl_ , her friend, her companion, a man who'd just waited half the afternoon by himself in a cold kitchen on the slim chance a stray dog might've come back, a man who...

Images flashed before her. Daryl, fighting at her side, his knife dripping with the black blood of the undead. Daryl, saying not a word, only following silently behind her as she stormed off with his weapon in her hand to search for lost children in the dead of night. Daryl, lit with moonshine, holding her hard and fast against him. Daryl, weeping in her arms. Daryl, smiling as she told him she wanted to burn down their only shelter and run off into the night. Daryl, holding her gently as she knelt on the forest floor, heaving up bile the next morning. Daryl, offering her a handkerchief full of hand-picked berries. Daryl, crouching beside her, fingers pointing to fresh tracks upon the damp earth beside a stream. Daryl, telling her things about himself before the turn, things she'd never have asked him in a million years, but which he offered freely, as though it had always been thus between them. Daryl, at her back, his arms circling around her from behind as he showed her how to pull the trigger on his bow. Daryl, laughing—that rare, joyous sound she'd only heard out there in the forest as he chased and caught her. Daryl, reaching out to her in the night, taking her hand firmly in his, lest he lose her forever to the darkness.

And then, oh…how could she ever forget it? Daryl, laying her down beside him upon a bed of fallen leaves, shielding her with his body from the world. Daryl, even now unclothed and unarmed, laying her down up on this very bed. Daryl, moving slowly and carefully above her, as though he were still protecting her as long as he could.

Protecting her from himself.

And yet, even in the midst of his careful movements, Daryl gazed down upon her with all the fervor and intensity of a man who, try as he might, could no longer resist the urgent, primal call of blood to blood. A man who, before her very eyes, had transformed from glowering, would-be chaperone, to fiercest protector, most patient mentor, dearest friend, closest companion, and now to…oh yes, there it was.

 _Lover._

The word no longer hovered on the margins of her thoughts, but took its rightful place in her mind. There, it now reigned supreme over all. And yet, as always, even such a weighty term was not enough to describe this feeling of what had grown between them.

For such a fire as this could not be described in any human terms, she knew that now. Nor could it be dreamed.

It could only be felt.

Beth understood now that this was what she had wanted and longed for all this time. And yet still she trembled before it, the power of her own yearning…and his. She could not help be a bit nervous for this, the final crossing. She could not help but shiver at the prospect of taking that final plunge into these waters of desire. Perhaps there was, after all, some part of her that was afraid. Not afraid of _him_ , never that. But afraid of losing him—or perhaps, more accurately, what had come to exist between them.

For she had long sensed that the joining of their two bodies would be both end and beginning, a burning down and starting anew. They could not hope to emerge unchanged, unaltered from such a fire.

She had to admit that, since they had begun this slow walk into the flames, a part of her had wondered if it would be too much. Too much for _him_. But now, Beth looked up and saw in her companion's eyes a burning that equaled, or even surpassed her own. Perhaps, she thought with another shiver, she had underestimated how much he, too, had longed for this moment.

Longed for it, but dared not dream of it, until now.

…

All this time, as they'd run for their lives, learned from one another, and grown ever closer, a conflagration had been spreading like wildfire through the forests of their hearts. Now its raging could not be extinguished, not even by the cold north wind that still rattled the small attic window. There was no turning back—all they could do was continue to delay the inevitable.

There at the edge of those searing flames, Beth wanted to speak, to tell Daryl that she wanted this, that she needed this, and that she was more than ready for this. That everything that had happened since they ran from their burning, fallen home and ended up together, the last two people on earth, had lead up to this moment. That, even now, she felt the moonshine singing in her veins. She wanted to tell him how much she…

But the heaviness of the moment had stolen her voice and all she could manage was a soft moan. "Ohhh." At the sound, she heard Daryl's own breathing hitch. "Oh, please," she implored. Beth was not one to beg, but in that moment, a plea was all she could muster. " _Please_."

Supporting himself on his elbows, even now taking such care not to crush her under his weight, Daryl cradled her face within his rough hands. Gently, so gently, his fingers light against her skin. Blue eyes flickered over her as he looked into her face for a long time.

Naked and exposed as she was below his hard body, she could not help but shiver and tremble. It must have only been fleeting seconds, but it seemed like hours before either of them moved or uttered a word.

Then, Daryl seemed to nod to her, or perhaps to himself, she couldn't tell. Finally, he spoke close to her ear. "I got ya," he said, his voice husky and thick with emotion, with so much more than those simple words.

Oh, vulnerable she might have been in that moment—helpless, even. But Beth knew in whose hands she was. She had surrendered herself to him long ago, to this man who had protected her with his body out there all these weeks and months. This man, who had taught her so much and for so long, patiently, and without demand. Beneath him, nestled amongst the bed covers, resting upon that soft mattress, Beth felt safer than she'd ever felt in her entire earthly existence. Even before, when she was a child, safe and snug in her bed. Safe and snug in her small, sheltered world.

And maybe Daryl sensed this, her complete, implicit trust, and her submission to him because of it. For he reached down to where he was positioned between her thighs and held himself firmly against her. Even as Beth trembled under him, she spread herself wide, urging him to come inside. To come home at last. And yet, he remained still, just for the slightest moment, as though waiting for something. As though waiting for her to proceed, no matter that it was he who could push his way inside her any time he now chose. But he waited. And then, just as she finally realized what he was waiting for, just as she reached down toward him, he found her hand. With his fingers atop hers, he closed her hand around him.

In this, he was not rough, but he was no longer so gentle, so restrained, either. Indeed, his grip was strong, almost…aggressive as he wrapped her fingers tightly around him. Beth gasped again to feel him thus. For he was hard, and thick, and _oh, Lord in Heaven_ , she thought, but she didn't falter. Rather, she gave him a gentle squeeze and a swift, confident stroke. Above her, Daryl emitted some kind of dark, guttural groan.

A heartbeat passed, and another. And then, together, they guided him into her.

Beth tensed, momentarily, at the anticipated intrusion. But with a deep breath, she steadied herself and unclenched her inner muscles. And just as her mouth had yielded to his, her soft flesh now parted for his hard length.

As her guards gave way for him, as he sank himself inside her, Daryl drew a sharp breath. Beneath him, Beth could not help but hiss, cat-like, and arch her back, digging her nails into the flesh of his shoulders. She knew her eyes must have been wide with the burn of taking him into her, for even though she was wet, she was tight, and it had been a long time. Fleetingly, she wondered just how long it had been for him, but then the feeling of this man, of _Daryl Dixon, oh my god_ , inside her overwhelmed all other thoughts and she wondered no more. Here there was no past, no future—all that remained was what burned between them in this moment of long-awaited union.

They both remained still for a time, as though determined to do nothing but breathe in and out, and savor this moment of finally, _finally_.

Still holding himself slightly above her, Daryl looked down upon her now with a mixture of reverence and wonderment. But within his gaze Beth caught also a trace of uncertainty and, she thought, concern. As though even now, deep inside her, he was still worried. Worried he might not be able to do right by her. "Sure you're…okay?" he whispered, brushing her cheek tenderly with his hand.

Perhaps the expression on her face had been more grimace than pleasure, so she made a conscious effort to smile up at him now. "I'm _good_ ," she insisted, leaning slightly into his gentle touch. It was not a lie—the fleeting pain had already melted back into an exquisite ache.

Looming above her as he was, his hair casting dark shadows upon his face, Beth could just make out the slight, almost imperceptible nod of his head. Slowly, he lowered himself so that he lay against her, resting his elbows upon the mattress and his hard stomach against her flat tummy. As he did, he sank deeper into her, making them both moan. Already she could feel him everywhere, inside her, all around her, the width of him spreading her further and further open.

And then, he began to move.

Beth let herself feel the weight of him rocking against her small hips, let herself feel the sweet sting of him inside her. "Oh…god, _Daryl_ ," she whimpered, biting her lip.

"Ahh…Jesus, _Beth_ ," he groaned, almost at the same time.

Within the shelter of his arms, she reveled in the achingly sublime sense of being both filled and enveloped by him entirely. He, the sky to her earth, and the place of their joining the anchor, the root, the bridge between. He became her universe—and as he groaned against her hair, as she spread herself wider beneath him, wrapping her legs around his back and taking him deeper still, she his.

There were a few moments before they found each other's rhythm in which they faltered, gasping and all-but trembling against one another, overwhelmed as they were with the newness of their intimacy. But soon enough they were moving together as though it had always been thus, as though they had each emerged into this world perfectly shaped, perfectly formed to join with the other in this manner.

At the sensation of each slow thrust, Beth drew a sharp little breath and gripped Daryl's shoulders tightly to steady herself as her hips rose instinctively to meet him. _"It's like you were made for how things are now,"_ she'd told him, the night of the moonshine. Now, as his hard body moved above and within her, as she felt herself expand and contract around him, it struck her to the core that perhaps she, too, had been made for something. Made to hold such a man in her embrace. Made to take him deep within her, just… _ahh_ , right there.

Even though he was moving slowly, it was enough. Enough that she could feel the full length of him almost to her belly, could feel the girth of him spreading her wide. So wide she felt like her very bones were shifting to accommodate him—and maybe they were. After all, Daryl Dixon was between her legs, burying himself inside her like he wanted to hide there forever, and it felt like the world had stopped turning, like the world had righted itself and all things were made new. Two bodies, molded from clay, now reshaped, reformed.

And they were indeed reshaping one another—for even now Daryl began to knead her body, his fingers tracing the outline of her small form as she whimpered beneath him. Even as he thrust slowly into her, even as he pressed his lips into her neck, his hand traveled the length of her body to dig into her hips, to caress her thigh. As she cried out at the feeling of being molded so, he sent his touch flaring up her body again, across her stomach and up to her chest, squeezing her small breasts beneath his palm. In her turn, Beth threaded her fingers into his tangles to grip his hair tightly for a time. Then, with increasing audacity, she moved up and down the slope of his shoulders to his back, her fingernails digging deep, leaving fresh marks upon already-scarred skin.

As one flesh, as one form, they rose and fell together. Two souls, each seeking heavenly release within the other. Merged thus, perhaps they could discover some remnant of paradise and reconquer it anew. Could burn down Hell itself and wrest from the darkness a brave new world.

The last ones standing—the last to die—now the first to live. The first to lie down together in a wild and dew-drenched Eden.

…

With each movement of their bodies, with each give and take, Beth found that she was making stranger and stranger noises— little mewling sounds she'd never heard from herself before. In his turn, Daryl breathed hot and heavy against her ear and shuddered and groaned above her with every powerful but reserved stroke, each thrust that seemed to penetrate not just her small body, but her very being.

No matter how many times she'd done this in the past, she had thought she'd never quite get used to it. It had always seemed to her a somewhat awkward, short-lived, and one-sided act. She'd never have admitted it to anyone, but the kissing, the tasting, the touching—all the delicious build-up—had always seemed far more exciting, far more enjoyable, and far more romantic than the deed itself. She vaguely recalled that she'd often been so concerned about the other person—the _guy_ —having a good time that she'd generally ignored her own needs. Reduced her pleasure to a small candle, a lonely flame, easily blown out before it even had truly begun to burn.

But there beneath her companion, Beth could not help but notice how he moved inside her—so attentive, so deliberate, so aware of her every sigh, her every moan, so responsive to her touch but also so generous with his. His shuddering sighs and groans told her he was taking immense pleasure from her body, but he was giving just as much—perhaps more—in return, with his own.

In taking such great care, in starting so delicately despite his reserve of strength, Daryl gave life to her flame, which now burned brightly within her, growing stronger with every one of his deep, slow movements. With each passing moment, with each pleasure-enhancing breath, Beth wondered now that she could have found her previous experience so wanting. Perhaps it had as simple as having never been with the right person.

Now, as she lay nearly breathless beneath him, she thought she'd never get used to this, but in an entirely different way.

Every movement, every stroke held such power, and yet he remained so gentle, so tender, so restrained. Though he lay against her, he kept himself raised on his elbows, hovering just slightly above her small form, so she could breathe beneath him. Even so, she still felt enveloped entirely, and could just barely peek out from around his broad shoulders. His kisses had ceased for now, usurped by staggered breathing against her neck. His cheek pressed against hers, and Beth could feel beads of sweat beginning to form at each meeting point of their skin.

At some point, her hair had come unbound from its ponytail and now fanned out on the pillow around her head. Taking advantage of this, Daryl threaded his fingers through its roots, gripping, gripping, just tightly enough to pull her head back and make her gasp as he thrust into her.

His movements were slow, yes, but strong, and she experienced a powerful need to wrap herself around him simply to contain the feeling. Each time he plunged further inside her, she cried out—soft whimpers that echoed strangely in the spaces around them. Now and then she found herself grasping the blanket beneath her, clenching her fingers into fists.

There was a moment when she felt it—a shift in the air around them, like a gathering storm. Her companion's breathing grew labored and his movements strained. Those movements, which already sent bursts of almost unbearable sensation through her, now began to gain in strength and speed. Even so, Beth knew he was still holding back. _It's ok, Daryl, I won't break_ , she wanted to tell him. But she could not speak, only whimper pitifully beneath him.

It occurred to her that maybe he needed this. Needed to prove to himself that he could do this. _That he can do this without hurtin' me._

But as she gasped afresh at the burning heat of him inside her, Beth recalled another adage: that, when you cared about someone, hurt was always part of the package. _Same goes for lovin', too._ For surely any pain that might accompany this most intimate act with this man would always be the most exquisite, welcome ache. The sort she would want to feel over, and over, and over again…

She felt it now, the building intensity of it, and already it was nearly too much to take—the heat of their shared fire almost too hot, too searing. The room might've been chill, but they were both sweating against one another now. Daryl's chest was damp with it, and the small valley between her breasts drenched. Entrapped beneath her companion, the man-scent of him mingled with the musk of their merging bodies, further assailing her already overwhelmed senses.

With Daryl's hard form pressed against her, the hairs of his chest catching against her nipples, Beth moaned to feel him as she had always longed to feel him—all of him, in all his maleness, moving solid, muscled, and strong above her. She could not help but run her hands all the way down the ridge of his spine, all the way along the length of his body until she reached his backside. She wondered, fleetingly, what it would be like to feel him like this, out there in the dark woods, with leaves and pine needles at her back instead of blankets and pillows, but then her thoughts fled with the building ache, there in that place of their joining.

Out of sheer habit of those nights in the wild, nights of being quiet, of keeping her voice to a whisper, Beth tried to control her sounds. But with each thrust of this man inside her, she couldn't help but emit sharper and keener cries. She tried to make sure he knew they were sounds of pleasure, that she was enjoying it. For enjoying it she most certainly was, enjoying the feeling of his hard muscles above her and beneath her hands, clenching and unclenching with each slow thrust into her stretched and aching body. And so, along with each sigh and moan, she pressed kisses into the sensitive skin of his neck. In his turn, Daryl began to groan softly in rhythm to her sounds, right against her ear.

Now, with her hands gripping him, she clamped her thighs more tightly around him. This she did instinctively—she simply had to hold him closer, ever closer against her. The increased pressure induced a particularly delightful sensation. "It's… _ahh_ …good," she whimpered into his neck. "Mmm… _so_ good."

In response to her pleasure-filled sounds, Daryl thrust into her with stronger and stronger movements, each one building in intensity. Pinned there beneath him, she couldn't help but struggle, just a little, and cry out. Like some trapped wild creature, she sank her teeth into the muscled flesh of his shoulder. And yet, all the while she clung tightly onto him, and pressed him into her.

Daryl groaned. " _Beth_." His hair was damp with sweat, his breath hot against her ear. "Beth, I—" he seemed to be struggling to speak. "I ain't gonna…I can't…" he choked out, breathlessly.

 _He can't hold back anymore_ , she realized. And indeed, she could feel him trembling there against her, could feel the power in him, coiled for so long, ready to spring forth. The bowstring, now fully-drawn. She held him close, pressed him into her, and spoke softly into his ear. "Then _don't_."

At her voice, at her command, Daryl raised himself up from where he lay against her. He remained buried deep within her, but now knelt between her quivering thighs, looking down upon her beneath him. As he did, his hands traveled from her upper body, along the slightness of her curves, squeezing gently, until he paused at her waist. Then, he moved lower, his rough fingers sliding to the dip between her flat stomach and hipbones. His touch was at once glorious and excruciating—like a brand upon already burning skin.

Beth gasped, and moved her hips against him encouragingly. _Don't hold back, Mr. Dixon_ , she wanted to plead. _Don't you dare_. But she just peered up at his face, at his features—formidable in the fading light as he loomed above her. " _Daryl_ ," she whispered.

He looked down at her, his eyes flickering over the sight of her small body in his hands. Those eyes now darkened, and his grip on her tightened. He dug his thumbs into her flesh, and pulled her slightly toward him. One thrust, and then another, and Beth felt herself being pushed against the bedspread, hard enough that if it had been a rug she would've had quite the burn.

Even so, she knew he was still trying to be gentle—his ragged breathing told of an immense effort, a dam holding the raging river at bay. But already his movements began to increase in strength and speed. He both pushed and pulled her, his hands clamped around her. Beth was suddenly reminded of the strange day they'd taken the wooden rowboat onto the lake. She had never forgotten how the muscles of his arms had strained as he'd pushed and pulled the oars, as he'd rowing them across that dark lake. As he'd rowed them not once, but twice, to safety.

Now, Beth thought she might very well be drowning again—not in dark waters but in sensation. And once more, her companion pulled her closer, ever closer to him. As though he could pull them both bodily not to safety, perhaps, but to some kind of salvation.

Soon, Beth found herself gripping the blanket again in a futile attempt to anchor herself. For Daryl was thrusting big, strong strokes, each one a stab of heat spreading fire all through her body. Each hard movement within her solicited a higher pitched keen from her than the next, until the sound reverberated from her throat, from her very being, like some primal, wordless song.

The sounds seemed to arouse him further, seemed to awaken something inside him, and from him now came grunts and bestial growls. There was a moment when he pulled out and then slammed back into her, sending a stab of heat searing through her, transforming her cries into wrenching, shuddering sobs.

Each of his movements now drove her harder into the mattress, pinning her down, striking her with all the force of a bolt from his bow. She tried to wrap herself around him again—a vain attempt to contain some of the intensity of the feeling. But her legs felt as though they'd turned to jelly, and as she tried to lock her ankles behind him, his thrusts were too hard, and she couldn't prevent her heels from bouncing uselessly against his back. Desperately, she tried gripping his thighs for purchase, to anchor herself, for each of his driving thrusts nearly made her hit her head on the headboard, so powerful were they.

After a time, Daryl had pushed her so close to the headboard that it was more than a little uncomfortable. Perhaps he noticed, for he suddenly stopped and raised himself up on his knees. In doing so, he pulled out of her again for an agonizing moment. She nearly cried out at the cool burst of air against her, at the loss of him within her. But then, he hooked her leg over his arm, and held her gently by her other ankle—the one he'd wrapped with trembling hands only just the day before. With this motion he both spread her wider and drew her more firmly toward him.

And when he buried himself inside her once more, she did cry out. The slow burn of it, the sensation of his thick length penetrating her so thoroughly, made her unable to hold back—with each subsequent movement she let out a half-scream, half-sob. Finally, her cries grew so loud that, out of sheer habit, she clamped her own hand against her mouth to quiet herself.

Lying there, attempting to stifle her sounds, Beth stole a glimpse of Daryl where he knelt above her, buried between her thighs. The faint, dusty light streamed through the little window, gently illuminating his bare skin, casting strange shadows upon his muscles, even now straining with each hard movement. As he pushed deeper and deeper, her gaze swept more boldly across him, across his body and all its scars. The soft, dwindling daylight shone upon the hard planes of his stomach and the deep gashes on his chest alike. Those marks had faded with the passage of time, but were still red and angry, giving him the appearance of having been raked by the claw of some devil, and maybe he had.

She drank in the sight of him—all of him—for she had never beheld him like this before. Not even when he'd taken down the deer that morning in the woods had he seemed this intense, this concentrated, and yet this…wild.

Even as Daryl's grip on her hips tightened, even as his movements gained in power, Beth continued her unabashed appreciation of his form. She followed the dark hairs of his chest down to the trail along his lower belly, to that which grew lower still. As she looked down, finally, to the place of their joining, the sight of him burying himself inside her was almost too much to take. Beth Greene thought herself long-past fainting, but if she had not already been lying down, the sight of him plunging into her, his darker hairs against her soft, gold curls, combined with the feeling of each forceful thrust, would have made her knees buckle beneath her, would have made her fall to the earth before him.

In that moment, there was no doubt in her mind—she was completely in his power. And yet, somehow, she had never felt more empowered. Even now, the look in his darkened eyes as he gazed down upon her was not dominance, but devotion.

Finally, she could resist no longer—just as she had earlier, she reached up to where he loomed above her, and ran her hands up the length of his torso. Boldly, hungrily, her touch traveled upward, over his hard stomach and all the way up to his broad chest, and then back down again. Beneath her palms, she could feel the ridges of his scars, and beneath those, his taught, straining muscles.

At this series of caresses, Daryl trembled visibly. But he did not let go of his own firm hold on her hips. Rather, he threw back his head and thrust harder than ever, his teeth bared, his canines flashing white—a grimace, as though he were in pain, or maybe ecstasy.

Beth was beginning to think the two might be one and the same.

With his arm still hooked around her thigh, the force of him pushing against her spread her so wide she could not have kept quiet even if she'd been surrounded by an entire herd of walkers. Once more she attempted to muffle her sounds, and as she moaned into her hand, for a moment she could see nothing, only feel.

Blinded with sensation, she felt him fall against her once more. And then she felt his familiar, strong fingers wrenching her hand from her mouth. He covered her mouth with his, swallowing her pitiful cries. Then he threaded his fingers through hers. Holding her hands above her head, he pressed them into the mattress behind her head, and began to fuck her, hard.

For there was no longer any other word to describe it—he was _fucking_ her. Fast and relentless, with all his considerable strength. That which had been building between them, now stripped to its barest, most primitive form. The sort of dark, ferocious desire that, paradoxically, can only be expressed in its fullest between those with whom there is the deepest and most implicit of trusts.

And indeed, each thrust was harder than the next. Each stroke seemed to spread her wider, delve deeper inside her than the one before. And yet, with his fingers entwined with hers, so reminiscent of their nights out there under the stars, each unrelenting movement of his hard body against hers seemed also more intimate—and more tender—than anything she'd yet experienced with this man. Joined above and below in this, the most primal and yet most transcendent of acts.

Perhaps it was the increased pressure of his body against hers as he moved within her. Or, perhaps, it was the very fact that he'd entrapped her so completely beneath him, with no possibility of escape that made her finally find her release.

It rushed over her, within and without, pulsing through her every nerve, flowing through every vein, flaring across her skin. It was everywhere, all around, white-hot and searing—stars falling from a burning sky to land upon an already scorched earth.

As she tightened around him, she felt him thrust once, twice, and she knew he was close.

His release, when it came, was fierce and wild but oddly tender. Like the man himself, she thought. As he thrust deep within her a final time, his grip on her hands tightened—his power, shaking into her through the bones of her fingers, right into her marrow. From him came an almost sorrowful cry, and then he was collapsing upon her, trembling violently.

In that moment, Beth couldn't have let go of Daryl even if she'd wanted to, but kept her legs locked around him as any lover's should be. Her fingers released now from his iron grip, she clung to him tightly, so tightly, as though afraid that any moment someone or something would try to take him from her. With one hand upon the back of his neck, she held his head close her to hers. With the other she caressed the small of his back, pressing him into her, as though she could take him inside her deeper still.

She knew she shouldn't keep him trapped thus, knew she should let him pull out before he… but there was no room for _should's_ or _should not's_ , not when her man was unraveling in her arms, not when she felt him shudder and shake and sob with it.

Daryl might have feared he would break her, but in that final moment Beth knew it was he who had been undone.

The rush of heat, the pulsing throb of his completion brought with it faint echoes of her own pleasure. Maybe, she thought, if they stayed like this long enough, joined in their most intimate places, the reverberations of this moment would just never cease, would just keep rising and falling, giving and receiving, in an unending wave of sensation.

Above her, Daryl made no attempt to pull away, not just yet. Rather, he remained where he had crashed upon her, his tide still surging between her thighs. A few, shuddering breaths passed, and then he brought his hands up to cradle her face. As he held her, gentle and tender once more, sweat dripped from his brow onto hers. He lowered his head to her shoulders, and then she felt it—yet another wetness flowing against her. Tears.

Carefully, so carefully, she stroked his sweat-dampened hair. Holding his still-trembling form against her, Beth wondered if she'd have to put this man back together again. If she'd have to stitch together the frayed, unraveled pieces of him, like the tattered sleeve of his jacket. And then, she wondered at herself, that she'd been able to hold him in her arms like this, hold him tight throughout this act that had transformed him from man to beast to man again. Oh, yes, she would gladly piece him together again—she'd done it before, and she could do it again.

After this, she could do anything.

All the same, she remained awed by it. By what had just unfolded here. Her blood had called, and a man's had answered. She was yet reluctant to let that man go. Still holding him deep inside her, in her most secret place, in her innermost being, she knew that from this day forth she would never be without him, but would carry him within her, always. Henceforth they would never be parted, no matter what… no matter even if… Beth shook her head and hugged Daryl closer to her.

In answer, he tightened his own hold on her and she sighed at the familiar feeling of his strong arms wrapping around her. With one hand he touched her, almost tentatively, holding her delicately by the nape of the neck, and then nestled himself further into her. Gently, so gently, he pressed his lips against her throat, against the place where her lifeblood pulsed, slow and steady. After all that had passed between them, this kiss conveyed such wrenching tenderness that Beth felt the familiar sting of saltwater in her eyes. She made no attempt to staunch the flow, but let the tears fall naturally, let them slide slowly down her cheeks and into the pillow behind her.

Finally, the wave of overwhelming emotion began to ebb, and, together, they stirred. Daryl shifted himself to lie at her side once more, finally pulling out of her in the process. As the chill air of the room hit her with full force, Beth cried out at his absence. Swollen and sore she might've been, but the loss of him from within her was the most painful ache of all.

At her cry, Daryl looked down, observing her closely for the first time since he'd spilled himself inside her. Something in his eyes flickered—perhaps he'd noticed her tears—and for a moment he appeared pained. Guilty, even. "'m sorry," he mumbled, stroking her hair.

"Shh," she hushed him immediately, moving a finger to his lips to stop such nonsense, for she wouldn't listen. She could not bear to hear him apologize for any part of what had just passed between them—not now, not ever. "Don't," she whispered. "Please, don't. There's nothin' to be sorry 'bout. And you know it. " She smiled up at him through the tears streaming down her face, and moved her hand now to brush the glimmering wetness in his own eyes.

Daryl blinked once, and then she saw it—the corner of his mouth turned up, just slightly. Ruefully, he shook his head. "The hell am I gonna do with you, Greene?"

"I'unno, Mr. Dixon," she said, grinning back at him. "I can think of plenty 'a things."

Daryl grunted, and, as if in answer, he propped himself up on his elbow and slowly planted gentle kisses, first on her forehead, then her face, then against her neck, and finally, upon her breasts.

Beth sighed, in sated pleasure and fresh agony. For though she was more than satisfied, such earth-shattering satisfaction only brought with it a longing for more. Already she could have wept from the ache between her thighs—already she missed being filled by him. Already she wanted to be with him like this forever. Of course, she knew it could not last, this blissful peace that had settled on them.

Sooner or later.

Turning to rest more comfortably on her side, she inhaled deeply again and snuggled into her companion. As Daryl pressed his lips lightly into her shoulder, his fingers lingering against the back of her neck as he nestled his face into her hair, Beth could only hope and pray that it would be _later_.

Belatedly, it occurred to her how exposed, how vulnerable they were, lying naked, filthy, sweaty, having just…expended themselves upon a stranger's bed—a stranger who could return at any moment. This probably should've alarmed her, but she only felt oddly bemused. As though she were back at the farm, hiding in the barn with Jimmy. Or, as though she were still at the prison, trying to sneak unseen into Zach's car. As though the prospect of being caught thus was not, in fact, a matter of life and death, but simply one of propriety. The image of herself and Daryl as two naughty kids sneaking around, breaking the rules at the end of the world, made her giggle out loud.

Behind her, Daryl raised himself and peered down upon her, his brow furrowed. "What's so damn funny?" he asked tentatively, like he almost didn't want to know.

"I was just thinkin'…" Beth tried to hold back her laughter long enough to finish, but could hardly speak through her amusement. "It's gonna have to be one hell of a 'thank you' note."

"Hmmph," Daryl mumbled. Reaching down to the foot of the bed, he pulled the throw-blanket over them both. Then, with a grunt, he settled back down behind her, wrapping his arms around her tightly. With just the slightest motion, he drew her against him. With his body once more wrapped protectively around hers, his heat warming her even as the chill draft swept back into the spaces around them, he buried his face into her hair. "I told you," he murmured, "ya ain't gotta leave no damn note."

Despite the sudden wave of merriment that had come over her, in Daryl's strong arms, with his breath at her back, Beth soon fell silent once more. The weight of what had just passed between them settled over her, but it was a heaviness she knew she could bear.

Soon, his gentle squeezes and soft, tender kisses subsided. The pressure of his arms around her lessened slightly and his breathing slowed. His chest rose and fell steadily against her back, and it was not without some shock that Beth realized—Daryl Dixon, ever-wakeful, ever-watchful, had just fallen fast asleep.

A memory came to her then: Maggie, speaking with all the self-assured authority of an older sister, informing her that you could always tell you'd given a man a mind-blowing time if he slept like a baby afterward. Back then, Beth had blushed furiously to think of it in such terms, but now she could only smile to herself—smile, and take him by the arms, and hold her satisfied man close to her own steadily beating heart. Beth grinned to have finally discovered it—the answer to a problem that had long-eluded her. Now she knew. She knew how Daryl, a man who almost never lowered his guard, might finally get some much-needed rest. The solution, it seemed, was altogether more delightful than she would have ever imagined. Far more glorious than she would have dared to dream, until now.

Nestled there against his quiet warmth, enveloped by his slumbering form, Beth kept herself conscious and awake as long as possible. It was nowhere near nighttime yet, and someone needed to keep watch. And so, even as the room grew steadily dimmer, even as the wind sneaked through the cracks in the window and chilled the air in that attic room, she attempted to remain alert. She tried to do this for him, just this once.

After a time, however, she found it harder and harder to keep her eyes open, and in this, she finally had to admit defeat. Daryl might not have broken her, but he sure as hell had worn her out. Against him, she stretched and yawned. She felt him stir behind her, felt his arms tighten around her again. He murmured something incoherent into her hair, and then went silent once more. Aglow with his warmth, she let her eyelids fall blissfully closed.

As she drifted away upon a warm cloud, Beth smiled to herself once more. Maybe Daryl was right, maybe she didn't have to leave a note, after all. For she sensed that a part of them would always remain here in this house, here in this bed. That if someone were to peer under the mattress and springs to the dusty floorboards beneath, they would find the image of their merged shapes burned right into the wood. Like some shadow of themselves left behind, a graven memorial to this, the discovery of their hearts' fire.

…

Some time later, Beth opened her eyes to darkness. Somewhere in her mind she held a vague memory of the sound of crying…

Confusion, disorientation reigned for a moment. Her mouth tasted stale and dry—the usual result of an unexpected nap. She hadn't intended to sleep at all, but she must've snoozed for at least a few hours, as the room had grown dark indeed. So much so that, for a moment, she was suddenly unsure as to where she was.

All she knew was that Daryl was no longer beside her.

Heart racing, she sat up, and…nearly fainted to see a hulking form in the dim light, resting heavily upon the edge of the bed.

"Hey," the form rasped. "Y'alright?"

Beth had to stifle a shriek—of surprise, and then relief. "Oh my god, Daryl, you scared the shit out of me." Though she chided him, her voice wavered a little as she spoke.

"Sorry, " he said softly.

Sitting up straighter, she gathered the sheet around her naked chest, for it was more than a little chilly in that room. She peered more closely at her companion. "What're you doin' anyway, sittin' all the way over there?"

"Just…didn't want to wake ya." Daryl sounded somewhat abashed, like a reprimanded puppy.

Beth's eyesight was beginning to adjust to the dimness, and she could see him clearer now where he had seated himself upon the edge of the bed. He had dressed again—or at least, he'd put his jeans back on and was wearing his sleeveless shirt, albeit still unbuttoned.

"Went downstairs," he explained. "Did another little search while I waited. For the dog," he added, glancing at her. Beth didn't reply to that, as her throat felt suddenly tight, constricted. Daryl pressed on. "Found some water. Fresh bottles, unopened. Brought ya some. Water, I mean." He nodded toward the nightstand.

She turned her head, quickly scanning the rest of the attic room, and her gaze landed upon the little table. Next to her gun holster stood a very tempting glass of water. Immediately, Beth reached for it, and as she did, she clutched the thin sheet more tightly against her chest, to cover her breasts. She wasn't sure why she suddenly felt the need to be so modest—it was dark, and only a short while ago they'd both had quite the eyeful of one another. Perhaps it was just the cold. Perhaps was because Daryl had dressed again, while she remained naked and exposed. Or, perhaps it was simply that everything felt different, somehow. Not bad, just…new.

Beth brought the cool rim of the glass to her lips and sipped, just tentatively at first. The water was cold, and delicious. Soon, she was drinking deeply, finishing it in one gulp. Obviously, she'd been thirstier than she'd thought. "Thanks," she said, setting the glass back down.

"Ain't nothin'." Beside her, Daryl shrugged. "Thought you could use a drink, is all. Guess I was right." His voice had gone strangely soft, and in that moment he sounded almost like a young boy.

She could not help but smile up at him in the darkness and sidle closer to where he reposed upon the mattress edge. Even so, her stomach fluttered, and she shivered slightly as she moved to rest her head upon his shoulder. Daryl's breathing hitched, and there against him, she felt him tremble, too. Beth thought she could understand—she felt oddly shy, like she'd only just met him for the first time.

He must've felt her shaking like a leaf in the wind. "You're freezin'."

Beth couldn't lie—she was completely naked under that thin sheet, and the room was not exactly warm. She just nodded against his shoulder.

Daryl searched around on the bed for a moment, looking for the throw blanket, which he eventually found where it lay crumpled against the wall. Gently, he placed it around her, pulling it tightly around her shivering form. His hands lingered there, warm and enveloping on her shoulders, for just the briefest moment. But then he let go. Instead, he kept his arm behind her, his palm flat against the bed's mattress at her back. When he spoke again, his voice was a rumble close to her ear. "Sure you're alright?" He sounded worried, concerned. "You were…makin' noises again. In your sleep."

With sudden force Beth recalled it now. She'd been running through pitch darkness. The forest, at night. Or it had been the prison hallways? Perhaps it had been neither…or both. She'd been carrying something—no, _someone_ —in her arms. Someone small. Someone crying… "Judy," she blurted. "She was…wailin'. You know, like she did at night, sometimes. I had her. Right…right here." Beth raised her arms, cradling thin air. "I mean, I knew it _wasn't_ …but it felt… you know…"

"Yeah," he agreed, sounding pained. "Yeah."

Whether Daryl meant _yes, I understand_ , or _yes, me too_ , she did not know. Not for the first time Beth wondered what sort of dreams haunted this man's already meager hours of sleep.

She took a deep breath. "I shoulda…I shoulda got her out, Daryl. It was my job. We all had jobs to do." In that moment, her voice sounded thin, shaky. Lost and wavering, like a child's. Beth knew if she spoke again she might lose what little control she had over herself. So she went silent, and just leaned further into his shoulder. Against him, she heaved another sigh—he was blissfully warm.

"Hey." She felt Daryl's hand come up to rest upon her shoulder. With the other he reached across her, and brushed her cheek. "Hey, don't—"

Beth gulped, heart in her throat. "Sorry, I just…"

But then he was drawing her closer toward him and bending his head to hers. With his hand against her cheek, he lifted her face toward him, just slightly. And then, he stopped her words with his mouth. He was gentle, so gentle, in this—if she hadn't known better, she would have though he was kissing her for the very first time. And in that moment, Beth could have wept for it. But though wetness pricked her eyes and threatened to spill forth, she swallowed, and held it back. _No more tears today_ , she decided.

Even as Daryl moved against her, she remained utterly still for a second, as though caught in headlights. But then something snapped back to life in her, and she reached for out him. Placing one hand on his broad shoulder, the other on the side of his face, she brushed his hair away from his cheek. And then she was moving her lips delicately against his, kissing him as sweetly as she could in return.

As their tongues met and danced around one another, Beth tasted something new on his breath, something fresh and minty. _The toothpaste_ , she realized. _He must've found it in the bathroom._ She felt a sudden pang—while she'd been napping away, the man had made a conscious effort for her.

But then she nearly lost all thought entirely as that man drew her firmly into his lap once more. He was still gentle with her, even as his hands joined his explorations, moving slowly, lightly beneath the blanket. She felt the now-familiar rough warmth of his palms slide over her breasts, just firmly enough to make her gasp in pleasure.

They tasted and touched beneath the blanket for a time, until at a certain point, in the midst of their gentle movements, it slipped right off her bare shoulders. Immediately, chill air hit her once more. She climbed down from his lap, wrapping her arms around herself where she stood before him, barefoot, naked, and trembling.

Still seated on the bed, Daryl moved to pick up the blanket to wrap it around her again, but she shook her head, insisting that he leave it. Even in the dark she could sense his brow furrowing in confusion, so she bent close to his ear and explained quietly, almost bashfully, that she had to pee _real bad_.

She turned away and was already hobbling toward the door when she heard his voice. "Wait," he called out to her.

Pausing mid-step, she turned back to face him. He'd stood up and was now bending to pick up his leather vest from where, so many hours earlier, he'd tossed it onto the floor. Then, in just a single stride, before she could even blink, he had already reached her.

Standing before her, he draped the heavy garment around her shoulders. "Best be quick," he rasped. And then he was a looming shadow, a solid wall in the darkness. He closed in on her, his arms encircling, his mouth swooping down upon hers once more.

This time the kiss was insistent, possessive. Desperate. _Don't leave_ , it said. _Don't leave me_.

When she finally managed to pull away, she was still shaking, but no longer from the cold.

Even as she turned her back to him, she felt his penetrating gaze follow her as she moved silently toward the doorway. His leather vest just barely covered her upper thighs. Bare-legged as she was, she knew that even the dark she must've been quite a sight. She needed no light to see—to know—that he watched her with the piercing eyes of a hawk.

As she slipped out the door, Beth shivered once more, for she felt it in her bones.

Tonight, neither of them would be getting any sleep after all.

…

She made her way back up the stairs as quickly as her injured foot would allow, as though answering some ancient, inexorable call.

His blood, to hers.

Even so, when she entered the room, she moved not to where Daryl sat waiting for her upon the edge of the bed, but to the little window. From that vantage point she could see that the last pale light of day had faded, leaving only the duskiest twilight behind.

 _Light_ , she realized. _We need light_. When she'd returned from the bathroom, she'd nearly tripped over all their clothing strewn all over the floor, and it was only growing darker. She moved away from the window again for a moment, and knelt on the floor to rummage through their pack.

"Greene." Daryl's voice was a quiet rasp from the edge of the bed. "The hell you doin' now?"

She looked up at him from the floor. "Matches. I know there's still some in here."

"Front pocket," he said, gesturing to his leather vest, all that covered her naked form.

Beth obeyed, and indeed, there in his pocket was his lighter. She recognized it as the one he'd had at the prison—she hadn't even realized he still had it.

"Ain't got much life in it," he added, "but give it a try."

Eventually, after a couple of failed attempts, she managed to flick it hard enough that it worked. Enough, at least, to light a couple of the candles that remained where Daryl had placed them the previous night, there upon the window ledge. Carefully, she lit the tea lights one by one.

When she reached the last candle, she could no longer hold the flame from the lighter, and had to tip its wick toward a candle that was already lit. As she righted it, and set it carefully upon the ledge, a drop of hot wax rolled down her finger. Beth flinched, but only slightly—if anything, in the chill draft still whistling in through the window, she found the heat of the swiftly-hardening wax sliding between her fingers to be a welcome warmth.

Even after she had finished lighting each little wick, even after the candle wax had grown cold enough to scrape off easily, she remained standing there, peering out of the glass for a moment. The forest beyond lay dark and silent; the moon had not yet risen to illuminate the world below. Soon, the flickering of the little candles made it hard to see properly—the reflection of the flames against the window pane gave the roof and the swaying treetops outside the uncanny appearance of having caught fire.

Flames or no, she was still cold. Too cold to remain so close to such a drafty window. Stomach aflutter with nervousness and anticipation, Beth turned finally to face Daryl.

Inside the room, the candlelight threw strange, dancing shadows on the walls, on the bed, and on the man who sat waiting upon its edge. He was still watching her where she stood, clutching the vest around herself like a robe. She knew from the freshly-raised goosebumps on her exposed skin that it did not cover much.

For a moment, Daryl's eyes caught the wavering light and gleamed, almost hungrily. "Come here, Greene," was all he said.

As though pulled by the harsh threads of his voice, or answering yet some deeper call, Beth walked slowly, purposefully toward him. If her hips swayed slightly as she moved, or if, somewhere along the way, she let the vest slide from her shoulders to thump in a heap upon the floor, she took no notice. All she knew as she crossed the small space was that she needed to go to him. All she knew was that, in an instant, she stood completely naked before him once more.

Despite her shyness upon waking, and despite her shivering now, she held herself straight and tall, standing perhaps even more boldly than she had earlier. Light flickered across Daryl's face, casting an unearthly glow upon him as he beheld her unclad form, once more transforming his features into something almost menacing.

Another tremor ran through her. No, Beth thought, they sure as hell weren't getting any sleep tonight.

Maybe not for a long time.

As she stood there, an idea crept into her thoughts and settled in, made itself at home. And so, before her courage left her, before she could change her mind, she knelt down upon the dusty floorboards in front of her companion.

Placing her hands for a moment upon his thighs to steady herself, she noticed that he had not put his belt back on—his jeans remained unbuttoned. She looked up at him, smiling shyly, feeling a little hesitant again now that she was so very close. "D'you mind if I…?" she began playfully, before trailing off, suddenly unable to put it into words.

But Daryl seemed to understand her meaning, and the slightest nudge of his hand upon the back of her head told her that, no, he didn't mind. He didn't mind at all.

Even though his jeans were already unfastened, Beth fumbled for a moment with the opening. Her hands, she realized, were shaking. She took a deep breath to steady herself, and reached inside. It was not without some surprise that she discovered that he had not put his underwear back on. Absurdly, she felt herself blushing, for it suggested he had indeed hoped they might take pleasure from one another a second time that night. Of course, she could hardly pretend to be affronted, for she had not bothered to put her clothing back on either. And she had no intention of doing so—she was enjoying this far too much.

Being free. Being together.

Still smiling up at him, she held his gaze even as, deftly, she freed him from his jeans. His eyes darkened, and he inhaled sharply, perhaps at the cold air, or perhaps simply at the feeling of her hand upon him again. For she'd wasted no time—in an instant she'd gently wrapped her fingers around the base of him. Even though she'd so recently had him, all of him, inside her, the feeling of him thus revived in her hand made her stomach flutter—his arousal was no small thing.

Before she could lose her nerve, she took him into her mouth. She felt his hips jerk slightly, heard the little hiss he made as she enveloped him. And oh, she had known she would love this, how solid and weighty he felt. Hard, smooth…and alive. The faint, salty taste of his earlier release, and that of her own body yet lingered. "Mmm," she hummed. And with her lips firmly around him, she moved just slightly down his thick length.

It seemed the little vibration and its accompanying movement was enough—enough to make his fingers tighten and twine into her tangled, unbound hair. With firm hands he began to move her mouth up and down the length of him. Beth didn't mind—if anything, she was grateful for his guidance. Goodness knows it had been a while since she'd done this. And all her prior experience had been with well…boys. She had no notion of what a man might like in this—she could only let him and her own, deep-seated instincts lead the way.

After only a few more guiding motions from his hands, warm and strong upon the roots of her hair, she started to get a feel for what he liked. She could tell he enjoyed it when she was moving her mouth in a certain way, or using her tongue _just so_ , for she heard the catch in his breath, and could feel his nails digging into her scalp, his grip on her hair tightening.

As she gained confidence, she took him deeper into her mouth. And then she heard new noises from him, sounds she hadn't heard before, not even in the midst of their earlier lovemaking. " _Ahh_ , Beth, Jesus…sweet…motherfucking… Christ," he groaned.

She felt a surge of new wetness between her bare thighs, as if in answer to her companion's increasingly pained groans. She considered, with some amusement, that this must be the most pleasant method of torture ever devised. Humming again, just a little, she moved her mouth and pursed her lips against him with even greater pressure.

Perhaps too much pressure. With a deep, urgent growl, Daryl yanked her head backward. And then he was lifting her bodily, pulling her to her feet, and drawing her toward him in one strong movement.

She stood before him, swaying slightly. His arms came around her, encircling her waist completely. For a moment Daryl went still, just holding her, and then gently, he stroked her hair where it fell in waves against her back. The gesture was brief and simple, but loving, and it sent a violent shiver through her. She only trembled harder as his hands resumed their roaming all over the curves and gentle slopes of her body. A moment later she felt the familiar warmth of his open mouth upon her breasts, the hot flicking of his tongue against their sensitive little points. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt his lips against her once more; her own mouth fell open at the sensation of his chin hairs dusting her shivering skin.

And then Beth was only mildly aware of herself tugging at Daryl's clothing, and of his yielding response. Only vaguely conscious that he was kicking off his jeans, and that she was pulling the sleeveless shirt over his shoulders. All she knew was that, in flurry of movement, their hands and mouths were all over one another, and Daryl was unclothed once more.

Her fingers danced upon his unclad form with a life of their own, and she observed him beneath her hands. His bare skin and all its accompanying scars had taken on an unearthly glow in the flickering candlelight, and his hair, fallen once more over his eyes, turned to dark, burnished bronze.

With his hands around her waist, he pulled her, finally, onto his lap.

Even though she'd just taken him into her mouth without hesitation, the feeling of his hard length against her bare body had her whimpering again. For she knew what he felt like now inside her, and even just remembering it was enough to make her tremble. Revived as he was, she could feel him, pressing insistently against her where he held her, fast and firm on his lap. Having tasted each other so fully only just hours before, the combination of the memory of pleasures recently discovered and the anticipation of those to come was almost too much to bear, and they both groaned with it.

Facing him like this, there upon the edge of the bed, with the candlelight casting deep shadows across his features, with her arms draped around the expanse of his broad shoulders, her inner fire stoked to full, roaring life. The heat of him, his breath, his skin, his hands, so close, moving against and over her body, had already warmed her—all save the tips of her nipples, which caught against the hairs on his chest as she moved her hips against him.

Soon, his seeking hands slid from her waist down the slope of her backside, his touch growing ever more exploring and confident. Ever more possessive. With rough, searching fingers, he moved to ease her open. Beth gasped at the feeling of her flesh being parted like this, from behind, her softness spread by the callused hands of a skilled hunter, all the while being held captive by his ever-darkening gaze.

She looked into those eyes, and trembled. _Any moment now_. Her heart beat furiously against her rib cage—she knew neither of them could wait much longer. So what if she was still a bit sore. It mattered not. She needed him inside her again, needed him like she needed the air that now filled her lungs with each, shuddering breath.

And so, even as he cupped her bottom from behind, spreading her firmly but gently, she raised herself up, pressing her knees into the mattress at his sides. Holding tightly onto him, she kept one arm hooked around his muscled shoulders. With her other hand, she reached down to hold him against her opening. And then she sank down on him, easing him inside, slowly, carefully, breathing deeply.

As she settled herself upon him, his expression made her heart flutter anew. For it was that of a man returning to a paradise he'd thought he'd only ever experience once in his lifetime. It seemed that, after all, she had surprised him in this. There was, she thought, a sort of innocence about this man that belied his years. Certainly, he gazed upon her now with unabashed desire, but there was something else. Humble gratitude and pure wonderment shone brightly in his eyes, and took her breath away.

Soon, the sensation of being slowly, completely filled, of being made whole overwhelmed all other senses. He was inside her again, deep, filling, stretching. For a time she did not move, but with the faintest sigh she let the power of it—as though the very universe were expanding inside of her—spread gradually throughout her entire being.

Holding her man deep within her once more, Beth allowed herself to just _feel_ him for as long she could. A moment, a century, an hour…a turning of the world.

She must've fallen into some kind of sensory-induced stupor, for at some point she'd thrown her head back and let her whole body go limp. Daryl had one arm hooked around her waist, his fingers splayed against her hips, pressing her down upon him. With the other he held her upper back, his hand warm and open against the nape of her neck, his fingers threaded through the fall of her hair, even now tickling against gently against her bare skin. Until now, she hadn't realized just how long her hair had grown these last weeks and months on the run.

Thus she remained—frozen, suspended in time, anchored to him by his strength, and by that which connected them fully, the place of their joining.

A small, almost involuntary movement of Daryl's hips beneath her jolted her out of her daze. She gasped aloud and cried out.

"Beth," he murmured into her hair. And then he slid his mouth to her neck, her ear, and down again, to her collarbone, and finally, to her breasts.

She inhaled sharply to feel those hardened peaks once again teased between his teeth as he sucked and nibbled each one slowly in its turn. He groaned into her flesh and bucked his hips beneath her—in this intimate position, his strong movement sent such sensation tingling through as to be almost overwhelming. Beth let a out strangled cry and fell forward against him.

Resting her forehead against his, she breathed deeply and steadied herself for a moment with her hand on his chest. Against his warm skin, against his taught muscles, she slid her palms against his body, just enjoying the feeling of him beneath her hands. After a moment, she moved them upward to stroke his face. She held him thus as she kissed her way from his collarbone up to his mouth, cradling his cheekbones, gently brushing the dark, lank hair from his eyes. Now she could once more see the fullness of his burning gaze in the candlelight.

Beth felt his hands come up to cradle her own face then, and his touch was gentle even as his callused thumbs brushed away the hair that had fallen into her eyes, too.

They held each other there for moments, their hands caressing, their locked eyes aglow with the steady fire that burned within and without.

Finally, Daryl began moving again. Each subtle thrust elicited involuntary cries, soft _oh'_ s and keening _ahh's_. He wrapped his arms around her again, his rough hands settling once more upon the curves of her slight form. With each tightening of his grip upon her waist and hips, yet more sounds escaped her open mouth, piercing the air around them like little darts.

At one point, he held her fast against him and went still, his fingers in a vice-like grip upon her hips, a grimace on his face. "Beth, I…" he said in a strangled tone, "I…"

She barely had any coherent thoughts left at that point, but after a moment realization crystallized, sharp and clear in her mind. _He's holdin' back again._

Pressed against him as she was, with one swift movement Daryl could easily just…lower her onto the mattress, hold her down, and take her, hard. But the ever-patient man was waiting. As though this time, he wanted her to take him, to possess him. To fuck _him_.

"Oh," she gasped, once more sensing the true extent of power hovering behind his carefully controlled stillness.

"Beth," he pleaded, this time sounding lost, desperate. " _Beth_."

"Yes, Mr. Dixon," she breathed. And then she began moving her hips, rolling against him where he throbbed hard, so hard inside her. Steadying herself with her hands on his chest, she could feel his furious heartbeat as she moved up and down, forward and backward, testing, trying out new movements.

As she glided over him, his hands migrated up to her sides, and then back down again to her small hips which he even now held strongly against him. With each movement, she enveloped him like a wave, and soon there was indeed an ebb and swell between them, a rise and fall. Her tide, now lapping softly against his rock-hard shore.

Gliding thus against him, her hands now found his forearms and she grabbed hold of him firmly; Daryl's grip on her waist and hips tightened. Anchored there upon his lap, Beth found his shadowed gaze and held it for as long as she could. But there were times when the pleasure became too much to bear, and they each closed their eyes and lost themselves in the movements and their own cries.

There was a moment when she braved a downward glance, and in the candlelight she could see enough to arouse her even further. For, as she raised herself up again, she caught a glimpse of his thickness, burying deep inside her. As she watched herself sink down upon him anew, every fiber of her being tingled with sensation, every soft hair on her skin stood on end. She felt something free itself inside her, something primal and long-controlled, long-hidden.

No longer did she hold back, but moved faster and faster against him. She arched her back, placed her hands behind her to steady herself, clamping her fingers tightly against his thighs. Soon she realized she'd dug her nails into his skin as though clawing at his flesh, and had thrown her head back as though to howl at the rising moon. Her hair fell back once more, drifting behind her like a cloud, trailing not only against her bare skin, but his, making the man beneath her gasp.

Suddenly, he leaned forward, looming over her, bending her further backwards. With increasing strength, he began to thrust upward to meet her every move. Each time she slammed down on him anew, he let forth a dark, hungry sound that could only be called a growl.

As she now crashed against him, and as he pushed himself harder inside her, Beth wondered what she'd been thinking, to attempt to ride him like this so soon after that first time. His movements were just as powerful as before, the solid heat of him even now burning her up, setting her insides on fire, and she cried out in anguish at a particularly brutal thrust.

Daryl stilled again, just for a moment. His hand came up, tenderly, to cradle the back of her head once more, to bring her face forward again so her eyes could meet his. The movement was oddly gentle, but strong, and his expression one of darkest lust. She trembled there in his iron-strong arms, in his unrelenting grip. His fingers dug into her hair and into her hips, a fleeting warning of what was to come. For now his hands clawed at her, as if no gentle touch could now bring them close enough. His mouth closed first upon her lips, and then upon the sensitive skin of her neck once more. As their movements grew faster and harder against each other, so did his kisses turn to rough bites, his canines sinking into her throat with each hard thrust.

She was making ecstatic, pained, incoherent noises, and she must've been struggling in his arms. "Hey, hey," he soothed, "Shhh, I got ya." His hands, which had been at once gripping and caressing her, roaming up and down her back and along her sides, had come to rest firmly around her waist, anchoring her to him. Now, Daryl moved them lower still, to grasp her bottom. And then Beth felt him shift, felt him raise himself from the bed, as though he were about to… _Oh god_. "Hold on," he rasped into her ear. "Hold on tight."

And suddenly, rock met wave. Taking hold of her, he rose, hoisting her high, impaled as she was still upon him.

Beth barely had time to wrap her arms around his neck, to cling to him with her thighs, before he was already moving strongly within her. He had her firmly in his arms, one hand gripping her by her bottom, pressing her onto him, the other he held staunchly around her back. It was unlike any previous time he'd carried her, for this time she was anchored to him by far more than just an embrace.

Suspended in Daryl's arms, her legs dangled weakly even as he thrust upward. He held her with such easy strength that she felt as insubstantial as a wisp of cloud. Try as she might not to be a dead weight, Beth could feel herself going limp with the overriding pleasure of each movement, and with a shuddering sigh she let her head fall back once more. She floated there for a surreal and unearthly moment in time, her only remaining thought the glorious, terrifying realization that it would surely now be impossible to come back down.

For Daryl was fucking her—fucking her as he held her against him, fucking her in midair. If she'd thought the previous sensations overwhelming, now she could barely breathe with the immensity of the feeling. No words could describe this. It was the sense of being freed from the bonds of the earth, from gravity itself. Of being raised up, enraptured by some heavenly force. _Who needs wings?_ Beth thought giddily. She was flying. Flying in his arms.

And in that moment Daryl Dixon was neither man nor beast, but an angel. _Her_ angel, lifting her high into the sky from the place where they were burning.

It must have lasted only seconds, but it felt like eons. Surely, they had traversed time and space, had crossed the universe and back in that moment.

But even eternity comes to an end, eventually.

Perhaps even Daryl's seemingly endless strength was flagging, for he now steered them both back toward the bed. As he did, he swung her slightly, and she felt her foot connect with something hard and cold. And then she heard it— a shattering crash.

" _Shit_ ," he swore.

At first, Beth thoughts were so jumbled she could make no sense of it. But then she realized. The glass. They must've knocked it over. Smashed it to pieces. _We're not even lit this time_ , she thought. And then all her giddiness burst forth, and she giggled wildly even as Daryl lowered her down onto the mattress.

He set her down carefully, and in doing so, drew out of her. He was not gone but a moment, but even in that brief time she was already pining for his return. A second passed, and then she felt him kneel on the bed between her legs. Rough hands closed around her chilled ankles—warm, solid shackles imprisoning her once more. Gripping her thus, he yanked her toward him. In doing so he spread her already open thighs even further, and then pushed into her aching, swollen place.

Perhaps she was more sore than she'd realized, for he felt huge to her in that moment. Almost too huge, and she whimpered and cried. "Oh, Mr. Dixon… _ohhhh_."

Daryl groaned above her, perhaps in both relief and agony to be inside her once more, and then he thrust, hard. He had only to push against her outspread thighs a few more times before she was writhing on the bed beneath him. With each deep thrust he was growling, driving her into the mattress, rendering her cries into wordless, frantic sounds. She might've even been screaming, but she could no longer tell—she could barely hear anything with her blood ringing in her ears. All she could feel was _him_ , rock-hard and immense, moving inside her. Him, and his iron grip on her thighs as he spread her wide and fucked her mercilessly.

Just when she thought she couldn't take it like that any longer, Daryl leaned back over her, pushing her knees upward. His hands clamped around the backs of her thighs, holding her down. And then he was plunging into her, and he felt so big, and so deep, that it took all her control not to make some very loud noises indeed.

The increased pressure of his body against hers was enough to send her close, so close to that perilous edge. Perilous because she knew he would follow swiftly after her. But she was overcome with it, nearly delirious with the pounding, surging pleasure and all she knew was that she needed to contain it. Desperately, frantically, she tried to kick her legs free of him, to stretch them out and wrap them around his waist once more. But she could not. He had her trapped, completely.

Beth was nearly sobbing now, struggling beneath him. Anyone might've thought she was trying to escape, trying to get away, but she was only struggling to be closer. No matter how close she was, no matter how deep she took him inside her, she thought that she would never be close enough to this man.

Above her, Daryl leaned in further. Finally, he released one of her thighs and moved to rest one forearm on the mattress, his hand smoothing the top of her head, his face so close to hers. The other arm he kept hooked around her thigh a moment or two longer, long enough that she felt both the spreading and the containing at the same time, and all with the delicious pressure of his body against hers.

Her mouth hung open; his hovered just above. Together they breathed hard in time with the other, making sharp, pained noises into the few, negligible spaces remaining between them.

Finally, Daryl released her, and brought his other arm around her, enveloping her within his muscled strength. And… _ahh_ , freed thus, Beth immediately entrapped him instead, locking her ankles around him, pulling him deeper, impossibly deeper into her.

At some point she must've closed her eyes, as though to contain the feeling further. She didn't know what she had been doing with her hands, but she found him now, and raked his back with her nails, from nape of neck to muscled backside. She felt his hot breath against her, and an instant later his teeth closed around her throat, just for a moment, as he thrust home. At the sudden sharpness against her skin, her eyes snapped open. Staring wide-eyed up into the flickering shadows above, feeling escaped from her as sound.

This time, she really was screaming.

Her piercing cry must have unlocked something in them both. With her blood surging fiercely within her, she arched herself beneath him just as he pressed harder, deeper into her shaking body. Perhaps Daryl sensed that she was close, so close, for he held the thrust, held himself still inside her, and _oh god yes_ , it was enough.

It was everything.

In a single moment she was unraveled and made whole again. The pleasure that shot through her was once again sharp and blinding, like shards of broken light in the dark.

Daryl followed soon after, and his release was thunderous, roaring, the aftermath pulsing, electric. Waves of pleasure washed over them both in its wake. And once more, Beth would be damned if she let go of him before they finished riding it out together.

Finally, they broke away, panting, chests heaving, heartbeats slowing. His seed once more spilled from her onto the rumpled blankets, but she put it out of her mind. All she could see, in the flickering light, was the face of her companion. His eyes were yet shadowed with lingering love and desire. Serious, yes, but she could make out, faintly in the fading light, the curve of another smile.

This time, Beth knew that neither of them had broken, not even in the face of it—this frighteningly intense passion that she sensed would not dissipate any time soon. Having stepped once into the fire and felt its transforming heat, this time they were iron-strong. Sharp-edged, like steel. Together, they would cut through all fear and doubt. Together, they could walk through any fire and emerge changed, yes, but stronger than ever.

She reached out for Daryl automatically, just as he reached for her. He collected her in his arms, pulling her to him. He held her against his sweat-drenched chest while their breathing steadied and their heartbeats returned to some semblance of normality.

As he pressed his lips once more into her own sweat-dampened hair, Beth could almost feel him smiling. She could sense the satisfaction in his voice, as he whispered. "Mmm, my girl, oh, _my girl_."

Against his bare skin, against his beating heart, she trembled, just slightly, because this term was new. And yet…true. Perhaps it had always been. But now, more than ever. For he had claimed her, beyond all shadow of doubt. Even now Beth could feel the fresh throbbing in the places where his teeth had sunk into her sensitive skin, and she knew she would find there in the morning more than a few marks. And, of course, the swollen ache between her thighs, where such hard and fast thrusts must surely have left some deep, unavoidable bruise.

Beth remembered it then—how, in the midst of her own passion, she'd scratched at him with her claws like a cat in heat, and she grinned into his chest. For she had taken her man, marked him as hers, laid her own claim upon him. _You're mine, Mr. Dixon_ , she thought sleepily, as she snuggled into him. _All mine_.

Soon enough, enveloped as she was in his strong warmth, she felt herself drifting off again. As she did, strange thoughts floated through her mind. _What God has joined together, let no man put asunder._ The phrase, so familiar to her in a past life, came to her unbidden. Once it had, she could not forget it.

It was ridiculous. They weren't married, and there was no one left to marry them or care if they were. But the words had crept up on her all the same, and just as she now snuggled herself into her man, she let the idea nestle into her heart and make its home there. As it did, she closed her eyes and hummed softly to herself, aglow with long-awaited love and quiet acceptance—for she knew better than to deny such shining, incontrovertible truth.

She snuggled into him further, as though she could melt into him completely. _I'll be your old lady_ , she wanted to tell him. _I won't even make you quit smokin', I promise._

Maybe she already was his lady, for she knew that he was most certainly her man. Maybe he'd always been. Beth shivered with the thought. For she felt certain, somehow, that her fate—her life and her death—lay now in her own hands. That somehow, today, in taking this final plunge, she had wrested her doom from the world. But her _destiny_ …now, that was another story. Perhaps, like something out of an old tale, the turning of the world had inextricably woven the threads of their lives together.

"Don't you think it's beautiful?" She'd whispered the words aloud before she'd even realized it.

Daryl's arms tightened around her. "My girl," he mumbled as he pressed his lips into her hair. " _You're_ beautiful. So goddamn beautiful."

In that moment, Beth thought she might just burst into flame anew. Such words from such a man, well…she would never have thought it possible, before. Would never have thought, back on the farm, when all this had happened, when she had believed there was no point to living anymore, that a love like this had awaited her, here at the ending of the world. It had not been easy. It had taken the loss of all they had, everyone they knew, for them to find it. But now that she knew it for what it was, now that they had held it, tasted it, Beth knew she would hold on, until the bitter end. No one, alive or undead, could take this from them. Even before they had lain here together on this bed today, she had sworn never to part from him. She knew she had not the power to make such a promise, but that did not mean she would not hold herself to it nonetheless.

It didn't mean she wouldn't try.

When they had begun this, she had not dared to dream it could truly be real. But now that it was, now that she had tasted of its sweetness not once, but twice, she dared to dream that it might last.

That, in a world of twisted, choking vines, of sharp, waiting thorns, a rose might yet be allowed to bloom. Might last through the darkest of nights, long enough to unfurl its petals with the rising of the sun, to spread them open wide to catch the cold, morning dew.

That they might live to see another morning dawn, beautiful and bright.

Around them, the dusky twilight faded into darkest shadow. And if the waning moon rose to hang above the bare, top branches of the dark, expectant forest outside, if the beams of the old plantation house creaked and groaned in remembrance of past lives as ancient oaks, if the boarded-up shutters rattled ominously in the autumn wind, if any creature, living or dead, had returned and now waited patiently by the front door, they took no notice. For they had made of that room, of that bed, of their fierce love, of their tender embrace, of the slow beating of their hearts, a world entire.

And in that world, in that dark room, they held fast to one another as though they were indeed the last two people on earth, nestled amidst its smoldering ashes, their love fierce and bright and burning—their love, all that remained.

…

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A/N: Many thanks to my dear readers who have stuck with this story and waited so patiently for an update. Rest assured that this fic is not abandoned; I still plan to continue it. Please bear with me while I regain the inspiration necessary to do so.

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 ****** IMPORTANT REMINDER ******

 **Please respect my wishes NOT to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you!**


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